The horror of Northwatch Keep
by Zeschi das Mondkalb
Summary: I wrote yet another story and this time, I took my sweet time. This story is more mature and gruesome than my earlier works. Immagine you do Fralia Grey-Manes quest in Whiterun. But when you arrive at Northwatch Keep, it's already BEEN raided. Here's some hefty Thalmor-whumping. Please enjoy. Longer summary and spoiler warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

author's notes:

Hi folks! I'll write another Skyrim fan story, even if no cock might ever crow after it. Well [shrug] lack of reviews speaks a language of its own. This one will be a lot more gruesome than my previous stories. I'm in the right mood for a major round of Thalmor-whumping. You remember that quest in Whiterun, "The missing", where Fralia Grey-Mane worries about her son Thorald? Said son is being held captive at Northwatch Keep. Buuut what if Northwatch Keep _was_ already ransacked when the Dragonborn arrived there? Let's say by your friendly neighbourhood clan of highborn vampires? Castle Volkihar is just a stone's throw away. [evil chuckle] Aaah the possibilities for dramatics and heartbreak! Of course, this story _will_ contain hefty spoilers. And I acknowledge that TES V: Skyrim is intellectual property of Bethesda Software. No Zeschi-profit is intended with this story. I'm just messing around with some of the NPCs and my Dragonborn (?) / Companion (?), who is a pretty argonian maiden by the name of Miss Scale. But she will have a late introduction.

Yeah, yeah… Let's get this over with. Please read and review, and enjoy – if possible.

* * *

The horror of Northwatch Keep

It was a misty, spooky, chilly no-good night on the Ghost Coast. Northwatch Keep stood near the beach at the tail-end of Skyrim's coastline. A few more miles to the west the border to High Rock was situated. And from Northwatch Keep to the border, it was just, muzzles, mudcrabs a-plenty, shipwrecks and the occasional fisherman's camp: a really lonely stretch of sandy nothing. A small island in the Sea of Ghosts was almost lost to living memory. But that lack in lore and history would cost the Thalmor garrison at Northwatch Keep dearly. On the island sat an ancient castle guarded by gargoyles. Well, gargoyles aren't exactly pretty and they only _look_ like statues. Those gargoyles were guards, huge winged brutes, crowned with horns, nasty claws and a screeching, toothy maw. They only screeched and moved when agitated. Most of their time, they sat still and played "butt-ugly piece of art". But who on Nirn would own such a squad of guards? Not to mention the dark, stocky eyesore of a castle. And worst of all: this castle wasn't forsaken!

x x x

Fervenor Acurineth was _not_ having a good time. He was on guard duty outside of the keep. Those prisoners who were still in high spirits had taken to calling him "Ferby". Admittedly there were few such cheeky natures left in the deep dungeons and jails of Northwatch Keep. Most humans and the odd argonian or khajit had their spirits beaten and brainwashed out of them. Or branded, or flayed… The Thalmor methods of "persuasion" and re-education were many. But tonight, the dreadful moniker wasn't Fervenor's biggest problem. "This weather gives me the creeps. The fog's as thick as gruel but definitely icy." Fervenor thought to himself. "And by Auri-el! What's that smell?" He walked a few steps along the walls away from the gate. "Hey Ancluas!" he called out into the shrouded air beyond his torchlight. "Is that you on corpse-removal-duty again? Ancluas? Come on, give me a reply."

But it's kind of hard to answer a call when you are being sucked dry. That's what was happening to poor guardsman Ancluas Sirmarion. He had been pacing to "his" end of the wooden palisade when suddenly, an Altmer civilian stepped out of the fog. It was a man wearing elegant, yet dull-coloured clothes. He had his head downcast, so Ancluas couldn't recognize his face.

"Hey you!" Ancluas called out. "Who are you? A wannabe Thalmor agent? This is no recruiting office. You have to go to our headquarters in Solitude for enlisting."

"Tut, tut, tut manners my dear boy!" replied the other high elf. "My name is Vingalmo. My full name doesn't matter anymore, because I outlived my family by several centuries. Why, my one-thousandth birthday should be next week! Yes I admit it: ridiculous age." This said, Vingalmo looked up and Ancluas stiffened. The face was handsome enough but that colour! Rotten butter was the best way to describe it. Yuck! And the eyes were of the piercing yellow kind. "VAMPIRE!" the inner voice of poor Ancluas Sirmarion screamed. But Ancluas couldn't voice that shout any longer. Vingalmo had already worked a soothing spell on him. Like lightning, he was upon the Thalmor guard and dug his fangs into Ancluas' neck. *slurp, slurp, slurp* Ancluas' eyesight went black and he knew no more.

Fervenor was _really_ worried now. He had heard muffled talk through the fog, Ancluas and another Altmer voice. He got a bad feeling and started to jog. Seeing a very bloodless Ancluas, he slid to a halt. Ancluas' still form was sprawled on the ground, a stupid, sickly grin still etched on his face. Fervenor knelt down but there was nothing to be done anymore, no help to give. Then, he saw the Altmer vampire glaring down on him. Fervenor recoiled, jumped back and bumped into someone else. "Now what do we have here?" a male, human voice drawled. Fervenor turned round and gulped. He came face to face with a pale man in ornate, black and red leather armour. The man was very tall for a human, had reddish-brown hair, a neat beard and those horrible orange eyes! And he wore a smirk on his face where fangs were poking through. "Vampires?" breathed Fervenor. "Oh Auri-el, preserve us!"

"You may just as well stuff your sun-god where he truly belongs." the stranger answered. His voice was drawling, silky, falsely soothing – yet very, very sinister. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Harkon Volkihar of the blood of Atmora-of-old. Yes, I am a first-generation son of Coldharbour as well. Me and my court are going to pay you a nice, neighbourly visit. We are thirsty, you know? Aaah, there are so many of us: Vingalmo and Orthjolf, my right and left claw, a trio of Dunmer, Rothil Slave-Master, Fura Bloodmouth, denizens of lower vampires. Oh, I forgot the couple of death-hounds, Gormr and what was his name again? Cuo-something? It doesn't matter. Folks, lady vamps and gentle-mistwalkers: let's feast!"

And for dramatic purposes, Lord Harkon Volkihar shape-shifted. His human skin burst in a spray of blood, he grew considerably in height and bulk, skin turned grey, unfeathered wings sprouted out of his back, a very ornate loincloth mercifully hid his *shudder* undead cock from view, hands turned to claws and he reared his ugly head. It had become very beast-like, gargoyle-ish and he wore a crown on a mane of midnight black hair. That was the moment, when Fervenor Acurineth soiled himself. But that's neither shameful nor surprising when confronted with _such_ a sight. Fervenor started to scream his head off but the screams soon turned to gurgles while he was literally torn to shreds, armour being completely useless.

Among all this ruckus, a small army of bloodsuckers mounted the palisade and rushed through the gate.

x x x

In the deep dungeons of Northwatch Keep, interrogator [or interrogatress? Nah, that sounds silly!] Quaruel En-Yalamel was still blissfully unaware of the bloody mayhem, which had broken loose on the upper floors. She pinched the back of her nose and made a theatralic brow-wiping gesture.

"Well, let's start again, shall we?" she asked mock-politely. "Who dragged you in to the Stormcloaks? What was your mission when you were caught?"

"Screw you!" Thorald Grey-Mane spat. He was shackled into wall-mounted iron bindings and the rest of the location left much to be desired as well. His tired, smoke-sore eyes wandered over a stretching bench, thumb-screws, dangling cages, tongs, nails, whips and scrouges, clubs and many other lovely items. Yep, he was definitely in a torture chamber. And that hag had been pestering him for days with her nosy questions. Thorald was just _so_ fed up.

"Screws?" Mistress En-Yalamel made a show of scrunching up her nose and rubbing her pointy chin in thought. "Why, we _might_ use them on your sorry flesh if you don't cooperate soon. Or should I say _in_ your flesh?"

Whatever retort Thorald had in mind, it was never voiced. Frantic banging on the metal door interrupted the session of "truth or dare". "What's the criffing matter?!" the interrogator yelled. "I _did_ make a notion not to be disturbed, didn't I?" A very panicked Thalmor soldier shoved the door open and barged into the room. "You need to arm yourself, mistress En-Yalamel." he panted out. "The keep is being overrun by vampires, a whole bunch of them. There's a vampire lord in their ranks wreaking havoc wherever he floats. We've got a lot of casualties and the vampires have some prisoners."

Quaruel En-Yalamel uttered a foul Altmer curse that sported the more or less clean private parts of _several_ elven gods and goddesses. She rushed out of the torture chamber in pursuit of the young soldier. "And what about me?" Thorald Grey-Mane called after them. But he didn't get any reply. "Oh that's just peachy!" he groaned and futilely struggled against his bonds.

x x x

Quaruel and the younger Thalmor soldier were running up the corridors and stairs of Northwatch Keep. Quaruel had grabbed an elven mace from a weapon rack. Soon the signs of bloody melee became obvious. They could hear the screams and shouts of elves and the snarls and hisses of vampires. And the bloodstains. Oh gods the bloodstains! Soon, they stumbled over the first dead body. The elf was half sitting / half sprawled against a wall. His flashy, golden armour had several dents and scratches. But his neck *shudder*: it wasn't two neat little pinprick marks. The whole left side of the Altmer's neck was _mauled_ in a horrific mess. The glassy, staring eyes and distorted face spoke volumes of the horrors he'd been through.

Quaruel En-Yalamel dragged the retching young-blood on. In the mass-hall, they looked on a real pandemonium. Tables were upturned, food and drinks were scattered everywhere, the floor was also littered with bodies, woefully few of them were vampire dust-heaps. Speaking of vampires, there were two of the monsters cornering an elder Thalmor, a grizzled veteran. "Mistress En-Yalamel, we've got to do something! He needs help." the young soldier cried.

"Not so loud, daft!" the interrogator scolded. "While I appreciate your idealistic streak…" Two sets of orange eyes turned on them and the once-Nords hissed viciously. "Well, scratch that." Quaruel sighed. "Looks like you get your wish. Now we _have_ to fight." Three against two turned the tables towards the Thalmor but one of the vampires had the rank of master. "Aaah, this will get interesting." the vampire master hissed. He jumped on mistress En-Yalamel almost instantly. The other vampire engaged the younger Thalmor. It was one nasty hell of a fight. While the young vampire and the young Thalmor fought somewhat evenly, mistress En-Yalamel was in dire straits.

The vampire master countered her every mace-whack with his brutish war-hammer. And a one-handed mace against this huge battering instrument could only end one way. Quaruel En-Yalamel was soon exhausted and missed a blocking motion. The war-hammer struck her full force somewhere in the right ribcage. The Thalmor mage robes did nothing to protect her. She cried out in agony but soon, the sound changed to hacking and coughing. "Not good, _so_ not good…" Quaruel thought dully while spitting blood. She just waited for the vampire master's final blow – which never came. The elder Thalmor veteran had sneaked up behind the bloodsucker and thrust his elven sword through the undead neck. A last ghastly hiss and the body turned to ash.

Meanwhile the younger soldier was doing better. _His_ opponent was clearly a freshly spawned whelp. They traded blows, elven sword against steel blade. The ringing and scraping of metal in touch with other metal filled the air. Feints, thrusts, and even roundhouse blows were exchanged. The latter made no sense against a single opponent but oh well… The Thalmor found a gap in the vampire's defence and finally speared its heart. So _this_ thing turned to ashes as well. The young lad turned around at the coughing and wheezing of Quaruel En-Yalamel. "Oh gods, lady. I'm so sorry to have started this fight. I…" the young soldier cried but was rudely interrupted. "I don't suppose you have some healing potions?" the old war dog asked. The youngster shook his head ruefully. "Me neither." the veteran sighed. "Poor interrogator! She's done for. Any last wishes or words?" "Take good care of recruit Boindil and get you for Oblivion's sake out of here _alive._ " mistress En-Yalamel whispered. Then her body started twitching and a very nasty swill of blood spilled from her mouth. Life had just left her.

"Rest in peace mam." the old war dog said. "Well tag along recruit Boindil. We still need to creep and sneak out of here and then run for it. I'm too exhausted for any more fights. I'm sergeant Shotoras, by the way." The escape was long and difficult as the fort was still under attack. They had to duck for cover behind barrels more than once. But somehow the couple of Thalmor made it out into the courtyard and from there to the beach. They walked the long stretch to the Karthfjord and the Solitude port. After the horror at Northwatch Keep, occasional fights with rowdy horker seals seemed like a piece of cake. But at dawn, with the sun's first light, it became evident that something was wrong with sergeant Shotoras.

"Ugh! Ow!" he wailed. "Does it have to be so _bright?_ And why do I suddenly feel like a wet towel? Oh no, I contracted sanguine vampiris!" "Well in that case let's make double haste back to the embassy." recruit Boindil said. And so they did. They climbed the mountains in the background and sometimes, Boindil had to bodily drag seargent Shotoras along. The coastal range near Solitude is very steep with rocks and the Battlesteed-Stone, caves, tilting towers aaand *grrr* wolves. These starving predators were an annoying hindrance. But at sunset, the odd and much-battered couple shook the iron bars at the embassy and yelled for entry and a bottle of cure-disease potion. They received both and spun their dreadful tale. "Northwatch Keep was overrun by vampires. I fear that we are the only survivors still in freedom." sergeant Shotoras said. He told of all their trials and tribulations. "And please _do_ tell ambassador Elenwen that interrogator En-Yalamel perished in the fight. Ruindil will want to hear that, too. They've been kind of close I believe." recruit Boindil added.

x x x

Miss Scale's bright green feathers stood up from her head. She uttered an uneasy hiss. Miss Scale was an argonian female with quite the colours on her. Her scales' basic colour was a dark brown but she also had orange, red, yellow and green markings in her face. And let's not forget the purple war-paint on her snout. But right now, she was feeling scared and wished she wore less daring colours.

She had overheard a nasty argument back in Whiterun. Olfrid Battle-born and his son Idolaf dumped verbal abuse on Fralia Grey-Mane, an old jeweller and stall-owner on the marketplace. Miss Scale winced sympathetically. Olfrid and Idolaf weren't exactly polite, calling the old woman names such as "stupid cow" and mocking her desperate inquiries for the fate of her son, Thorald Greymane. When father and son Battle-born had left, Miss Scale started a conversation with Fralia. "Oh you poor woman! What'sss wrong with thessse two? Why did they ssscorn you and call you namesss? What wass it all about?" Miss Scale was invited to the Grey-Mane mansion. There, Fralia patiently explained the situation while her son Avulstein not-so-patiently brandished his huge two-handed war-axe and uttered violent threats. But Fralia spoke a word of command to calm him down. Apparently Thorald Grey-Mane had joined the Stormcloaks but one day, he and his comrades had gone missing, presumably captured. Poor Fralia was worried sick for her son. She had badgered nearly all the members of the Battle-born clan, that they feuded. But those Battle-born wouldn't spill a thing on the matter. They stayed clamped shut like oysters. And that's where Miss Scale's part began. She was to break in to the Battle-born estate and steal some proof of Thorald's whereabouts. Burglary _was_ a tricky thing, even for a noble cause. But Miss Scale complied and came back with an Imperial document written by general Tullius himself. A few gemstones and silver ingots also went missing in the process. Strange… :-)

Well Miss Scale agreed to the rescue mission and declared, she'd bust Thorald out all by herself. That promise had been a bit _too_ boastful. After about three days of cross-country hiking she stood in front of Northwatch Keep. And the fort gave her the creeps. The place was deserted. As Miss Scale looked around she saw ever-so-many signs of a bloody battle. And it hadn't ended in favour of the Thalmor that much was obvious. She found one dead Altmer after another. She crossed the threshold and wrinkled her snout. "Oooh what a ssstink!" she moaned. "Hello? Isss someone sstill alive and kicking?" But only silence met her ears. In the lowest levels the dungeon had been emptied. All prisoners were missing and no sign of a certain Thorald Grey-Mane. She _had_ found traces of the attackers however. Three to four heaps of vampire dust lay on the floor, accompanied by weapons, armour and gear. So vampires had been responsible for the raid. In a dormitory, Miss Scale found an inkwell, quill and paper. She wrote a letter to Fralia Grey-Mane. She didn't have the courage to break the news to the old woman personally.

 _Dear Mrs. Grey-Mane,_

 _I am terribly sorry but I couldn't find your poor son Thorald. I_ _did_ _end up at Northwatch Keep. But it looks like the whole fort was pillaged and raided by vampires well before my arrival. All the cells are empty and the torture chamber as well. You may have the solace that the Thalmor garrison was eradicated as well. To pursue this matter further, I'll have to join the Dawnguard. Maybe with their assistance, I'll find your son somewhere_ _before_ _it's too late. Again, I am very, very sorry._

 _Sad regards_

 _Miss Scale, your friendly argonian adventurer_

A few days later, that letter was brought by courier to Fralia's jeweller's booth. She read it, blanched and fainted. Avulstein had to carry her home. When Fralia woke up again she let loose an anguished scream and cried till her tears ran dry. Avulstein was quite downcast as well. But he was too much of a man to make a scene.

* * *

author's question: Shall I write a sequel to this story?


	2. Chapter 2 Miss Scale goes to Rifton

author's notes: A kind review at last! Thank you so much DevilBountyHunter1. I'll continue with "The horror of Northwatch Keep" and make Miss Scale journey to Rifton. She did want to join the Dawnguard to help Thorald Grey-Mane out. And yes: TES V: Skyrim is intellectual property of Bethesda Software. I'm just spinning my own non-profit tale. Merry Christmas and a happy New Year be to all of you. But now on with the story!

Chapter 2: Miss Scale goes to Rifton

Miss Scale was more than happy to leave Solitude. Not that it was an ugly or unpleasant city – far from it. But she still had her grand plan in mind: to join the Dawnguard. To boldly go where no lizard has ever gone before, blather, blather, blather… She had handed her letter for Mrs. Grey-Mane over to the courier along with a bigger pay. But then, the smallfolk of Solitude kept bothering her with petty tasks: Noster Eagle-Eye, the local beggar, wanted his helmet returned *sigh*, bullying Vittoria Vici into releasing a precious cargo-load of spices for Evette San (Miss Scale couldn't possibly afford to take over the tax-debt of 2 000 septims!), and that ridiculous request of Drevlin's. "No by the Hissst, pleassse keep that ssstinking hip-bone. I don't want any part in thisss." Miss Scale had whined.

But now, she happily dusted off her hands and rented a carriage-ride to Rifton. 20 septims was not too costly for a bit of comfort. During the ride, she practiced harmless, easy spells. Miss Scale was an aspiring spell-sword. It _was_ such a long ride via Dragonbridge with a stay at the Four-Shields-Inn, Rorikstead had the Frostfruit Inn, they gave Whiterun a wide berth but stopped at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood. The carriage toiled up into the mountains, past Helgen to the pass-road of Haemar's Disgrace. The carriage driver and Miss Scale were both weary of that place. Haemar's Disgrace Cave had an ill reputation. It was said to be _crawling_ with vampires. Yuck! As soon as they were in the lowlands again, the Rift spread out before them. Miss Scale sniffed the mild air. It smelled of honey, flowers, mushrooms and unluckily bears and other rancid predators. And there were birch-trees, _lots_ of birch-trees, gourd-pumpkins too. A few times, they were bothered by the local wildlife. But Miss Scale singed a few holes in a few pelts and the critters scampered off, yelping and howling. They passed Ivarstead without a visit and rode on the Lake-Honrich-Scenic-Road (as I dubbed it). The poor draught horse was huffing and wheezing when they finally reached Rifton's gates.

It was already late at night and Miss Scale wanted nothing more than to hit the pillow at the Bee & Barb Inn. Buuut there was this greedy guardsman. He rambled about a "visitor's tax" of 100 septims. Well, Miss Scale would have none of it. She hissed: "Now that isss blatant black-mailing if I ever ssssaw it! I haven't got one drake to ssspend for the likesss of you. Ssso jussst open the dratted gate for me, will you?" And the guardsman hastily obeyed.

The Bee & Barb Inn was a multi-storied building in the centre of Rifton, right next to the market place. Miss Scale wasn't overly fond of Rifton but she liked the Bee & Barb. It was owned by a couple of fellow Argonians, Talen-Jei and Keerava. The bar-room was _the_ meeting place for a greater part of Rifton's population. Well there was another… *err* "establishment". That was Helga's bunkhouse. But it was only meant for the workers who couldn't afford an apartment or a whole house of their own. Besides Helga was a Dibella-fanatic slut who even pleasured married men and had up to three lovers per month.

So the Bee & Barb was just fine. Sometimes you had to shut out the ranting sermons of Maranal the priest. But Talen-Jei had pretty good liquor in store. His specialities were three different cocktails. He had tried out the recipes in his bartender days in the town of Gideon. Miss Scale bought the ladies' cocktail: a whole tankard of "Whitegold Tower". It was a concoction of mead, sweet cream, honey and dragon-tongue-orchid. Delicious! When the tankard was emptied, Miss Scale paid 10 septims for a room and slept through the rest of the night.

The next day, she left Rifton and hit the road in direction to the Morrowind border. She had heard stories of Castle Dawnguard being situated in a remote canyon. On her way, Miss Scale was attacked by frostbite spiders, wolves and other annoying critters. But she defended her hide with frost spells and a blade. Dead wolves could be skinned and dead frostbite spiders could be harvested for venom. That was a tad bit disgusting but oh well… She walked along the cobbled road until she came to a gap in the mountains left of her. That dark gap was marked by burning braziers. Miss Scale went through the tunnel and came to an idyllic valley. A snowy path spread out in front of her, there were snowberry bushes and running deer. Later on, she came to a frigid pond with salmon to catch and some mudcrabs to kill. And she met a nice young man named Angmaer. He was a wannabe recruit like her. Together, they followed the winding path. Angmaer walked on ahead while Miss Scale kept exploring the valley. There was another dark and foreboding cave in a remote corner. She entered but hastily backed out again. A snarling bear launched itself at her! Miss Scale wracked her brain for a soothing charm but couldn't remember having learned one.

She had to fight the bear with her trusty steel blade and the frostbite spell. The icy breeze made the bear tired and clumsy. Thus it was easier to slash and stab. But Miss Scale also received some scratches, deep nasty gouges in her scaly skin. "Ow, ow damn beassst! Youssa be only good for trophy, yesss indeed." Finally, she wedged her blade in under the bear's chin and pushed with all her might. Snarls turned to moans and gurgles and there was a whole stream of blood running over her hands. Then, the sword was wrenched out of her hands by several kilos of dead meat too many. Sighing, Miss Scale bent down and pulled her blade out again. She wiped the blade and her hands clean as best as she could. She uncorked a healing potion and downed the liquid. Then, she continued on her way. The path made several bends and soon a castle appeared. A _huge_ castle indeed! It was surrounded by palisades and lookouts. In a kind of secluded shooting range, she met an elderly Orsimer. His name was Durak and he was one of the Dawnguard's recruiting officers. He had lost several wives to vampire attacks and that sad experience had filled him with a thirst for revenge and made him join the Dawnguard. So there he stood, singing praises to his crossbow. Yes, obviously the Dawnguard owned crossbows – a rare privilege in Skyrim where even the elves hadn't gotten past bows of whatever kind. "I want to enlissst to the Dawnguard", Miss Scale said. "Thisss crossbow looksss jussst sso impressive. I want my own." Durak chuckled and replied: "Hah, you'll get your own soon enough. Just enter the castle and talk to Isran, our leader. He's a burly, ill-tempered Redguard with a bald head and long beard. But he's always eager to get to know new members."

So Miss Scale followed the last bit of the path towards grand stairs and an even greater gate. The main building was surrounded by little towers, or rather mighty pillars. The castle was connected to them by walkways on top of star-shaped walls. It looked so very impressive and defiant. Miss Scale tore her gaze away and entered through the main gate. She stepped into a circular hall. The roof was a huge dome that had a hole to the sky in the topmost centre. A little further down, there was a sort of balcony running round the first floor. The ground floor held some crates and two men who were arguing. There was a man in the robes of Stendarr's Vigil. His name was Tolan. And there was Isran, a Redguard who wore a sturdy, knee-long, heavy leather armour studded with…well iron studs, lots of iron studs. And Miss Scale noticed that Isran spoke with a funny accent. At the moment, a steaming Isran was – in so many words – calling the order of Stendarr's Vigil useless and weak. And Tolan whined about the Hall of Vigilance having been destroyed and that Keeper Carcette had been killed. The Dawnguard and the Vigil of Stendarr: two orders that obviously had dedicated themselves to the extinction of vampires – but who didn't get along at all! Miss Scale thought it a shame in her humble opinion.

Tolan started a report about an eerie cave named Dimhollow Crypt, a vampire hideout and ancient vampire artefacts. But Isran had noticed Miss Scale and held up a hand to stop Tolan's rambling. "Well who might _you_ be?" he asked none to friendly.

"I am Misss Ssscale, an argonian adventurer. I have a kind of a problem. I ssshould have sssaved the ssson of a mighty Whiterun family. Torald Greymane, he wasss detained at Northwatch Keep. But when I got there, vampiresss had already ranssacked the place. No living sssoul remained within the whole fort. I fear the worst for poor Torald Greymane. If the vampiresss kept him alive, he mussst be somewhere terrible, rotten, no-good. Messsa need help to find that place and bussst him out, ssssir."

Isran frowned and replied: "First of all: Do I look like a sir to you?" Miss Scale wisely shook her head. "Good. Now to your request: I'm afraid, I just can't go gallivanting out into the blue. You don't know _where_ that vampire hideout is. You don't know _how many_ blood suckers live there. Right?"

"That is woefully correct s… Isran." Miss Scale said. "I also wanted to join the Dawnguard to get thisss flassshy crossbow."

"You just don't join the Dawnguard with your only reason being a long-range weapon, however formidable! Show some real dedication here. Maybe you can help Vigilant Tolan out? Talk to him. And if you so dearly want that criffing crossbow, take one from the crates over there. Bolts should be somewhere nearby. Welcome to the gang!" Isran lectured her.

"Thanksss." the Argonian said. "May I look around first?" Isran waved his hand in a go-ahead-gesture. So Miss Scale wandered the ground floor. She took a crossbow and bolts from the crates. There also was a dining area, a forge, several kennels and pens, two armoured huskies and a dormitory with several camp beds.

She returned to the circular entrance hall where Angmear was under heavy scrutiny of Isran. Angmear had just been asked, if he had any experience with weapons. He had mumbled something about his father's axe. Isran threw back his head and burst into a bout of derisive laughter. "Good gracious 'his father's axe'! Now listen to that. You'll need something better to fight vampires and survive." So Angmear was shown the 101 of crossbow-shooting.

Meanwhile Miss Scale talked to Vigilant Tolan. "Isran said that you needed help?" Tolan answered her: "Yes indeed. Lately, a friend of mine has been doing research in an old haunted crypt near Mehrunes Dagon's shrine. It's called Dimhollow Crypt and my friend's name is Adalvald, Brother Adalvald if you want to be thorough. Poor guy, he was almost _obsessed_ with vampire artefacts. And he assumed that such an ancient artefact was hidden in Dimhollow Crypt. But I haven't heard from Adalvald for quite some time. I fear something has gone wrong. Could you look into this affair, Miss Scale?"

"Yesss, I can. But not right now. It'sss been a long day for an argonian adventurer. Ssso excussse me when I hit the pillow now." Miss Scale said.

"Of course." Tolan replied. "I'll go ahead of you and wait for you in the entrance cave to Dimhollow Crypt. See you." And with that, he was gone, gone forever. But that's another tale.

Miss Scale searched herself an empty, fur-covered camp bed and slept the night away.


	3. Chapter 3 Prison talk at Castle Volkihar

Author's notes: First of all, I'd like to thank FlameCatcher for his/her kind review. I really feel inspired to continue this story. But in this chapter, I'll give Miss Scale a break and switch back to Thorald Greymane and the few surviving Thalmor. Should be "interesting" how they adapt to the grisly new circumstances.

As always, there'll be hefty spoilers for the Dawnguard DLC and TES V: Skyrim is intellectual property of Bethesda Software. I'm just messing around with the NPCs and sprinkling a few additions into the mix. But 'nough said: on with the story!

Chapter 3: Prison talk at Castle Volkihar

There was a room in Castle Volkihar at the very back of all the ground-floor-rooms. Well there was the disgusting banquet hall with the groaning vampire thralls lying on the tables (not to mention the gnawed, bloody bones), a forge, the sanctum of the Blood Chalice, and other such side chambers. And there was the "cattle pens", the realm of Rothil Slave-Master. It was a windowless vault with huge heaps of bones lying on the dirty floor. On both sides of the vault were several cells holding the so called "vampire cattle". These people were mostly humans in a very poor state. They wore rough-spun, un-dyed clothes but what was really disturbing, was their mental condition. They had been reduced to moaning, confused, always dead-tired wrecks. When the cell doors were opened a few times a week, they didn't even _try_ to escape anymore. For it was just some vampire or another coming in for a feed by blood-letting the humans.

But lately, there had been some new additions to the stock, people who had still kept a sane piece of mind somewhere.

Thorald Greymane had been stuck into a cell together with one of the Thalmor survivors. Therefore he was not a happy Nord. The Thalmor, whose name Thorald didn't care to remember, had been praying in that elven gibberish they spoke on the Summerset Isles – errr "Alinor" as it was called of late. Praying for estimatedly three days he had been…and alternately handing out empty threats to the vampires in the common tongue. Poor Thorald had reached his breaking point and snapped.

"Oh _will_ you finally shut up?!" he yelled. "Praying won't help a thing in here. Believe me, I already tried. And as for your threats: even _I_ can see, how flimsy and unbelievable they are. No, no, no…Don't start on another lecture about Altmer supremacy. Just _please_ be silent."

The Thalmor snapped his jaws shut and sent Thorald a withering and oh-so-icy look. His green eyes bored into Thorald's blue ones for a long time. Then, the Altmer tired of the game of stares. He huffed and turned away. "Suits me just fine!" Thorald sniped.

Thorald still remembered their arrival on Volkihar Island and Lord Harkon's "welcome speech" vividly and shuddered.

x x x

 _flashback_

Again, the door of the torture chamber was thrown open. But it wasn't mistress En-Yalamel returning. It was a couple of freaking vampires! So the young Thalmor recruit hadn't been talking bull. The male vampire sneered and griped: "Oh great, another prisoner. These folks will last us a hundred years as cattle." "Likely more" his female companion joined in. "If we feed'em well, they won't die like the flies." Then she started to unlock the handcuffs.

"If you lay _one_ filthy hand on me…" Thorald started to threaten her. But he was cut short by the male vampire. "You'll do what? Cry for your mommy?" he jeered. "Oh but mommy isn't here. You'll have to suffer our company for the time being. Yes _suffer_ is the key word." Just for fun, the vampire worked a bit of vampiric drain leech-spell on Thorald. Ow, that had hurt! While he was distracted, the female vampire unshackled him. Then, they frog-marched and half dragged Thorald up the stairs, lots of stairs. He was dimly aware of other prisoners (and Thalmor!) being in the same nasty predicament. They were rounded up in the courtyard.

His lordship Harkon Volkihar was already waiting for them. Luckily he had shifted back to his human form. Lord Volkihar cleared his throat and announced: "Dear prisoners and Thalmor survivors! Rejoice for you'll be free of Northwatch Keep at last. Sadly, that means you'll go over into _my_ property." Here, the grand speech was interrupted by gasps and shouts of denial. "This is not open to discussion!" Lord Harkon's voice had suddenly turned steely. "We'll ship you off to Volkihar Island and some of you might never see the light of day again. At my castle, I'll decide _who_ of you sorry lot is vampire material. The rest will be used for feeding and blood-letting. There will be cruel trials before you. My lord Molag Bal is after all the daedric prince of rape, slavery and domination. Especially the rape will be…satisfying in most cases." Lord Harkon now mercifully ended his speech. He felt that the prisoners were sufficiently intimidated. And so, Thorald Greymane had ended up in the dungeon of Castle Volkihar - squeezed together with a Thalmor of all things!

 _End flashback_

x x x

"What's your name, human?" an elven voice asked after the next round of sleep. Had it been days? Weeks more likely. Well someone _was_ desperate to make conversation.

And Thorald Greymane surprisingly chose to answer. "First of all, the term 'human' may be correct but also _so_ rude. I'm a Nord from a noble clan with an ancient history. And by 'ancient' I mean: dating back to the foundation of Whiterun. Relatives of mine have always worked at the Skyforge. Maybe you've heard of it? Huge furnace with an eagle carved in stone for decorations? Oh, never mind. My name is Thorald Greymane."

The Altmer studied him with green, calm eyes. "Uu-hu." he hummed. "I'm Anitul Sirmarion from the city of Cloudrest, also from an ancient family of…well artists. So I'm the odd one out. Unless you want to consider the Thalmor methods a kind of art. No, you certainly _won't_ see torture like that. " he added hastily. "We might be in here for a _very_ long time. And so ends the first century of my life." The last phrase came out in a depressed sigh.

Thorald gave a short, bitter chuckle to that. "You elves and your oversized life-spans! How you manage to live through centuries, in some cases even millennia, and keep your sanity, is beyond me. We humans may reach 100 years, if we're lucky. I'm 30 years old now."

Anitul gave him a confused look. "So, you're still in your prime _and_ already grizzled? Mistress En-Yalamel must have been hard on you indeed." But to mention that name surely was a mistake.

For Thorald bared his teeth and hissed: "Don't mention that hag ever again!" A little calmer, he continued: "No, I already had a mop of grey hair _before_ I came into your 'lovely' custody. Early greying runs with the family. After all, we're the _Grey-Mane_ clan. Uncle Vignar, Eorlund my father, my mother Fralia, Avulstein my brother and my sister Olfina. Six people all in all."

"Ah, yes. You humans are easy-breeding like cats. The mer races are different in that regard. An altmer woman is lucky, if she can deliver four children, maybe five if she's rushing it. And twin births are even rarer. I've only got _one_ sibling, my sister Megora. A long life has a few downsides but more advantages."

"Like what?" Thorald asked despite of himself. He didn't quite understand. How could you enjoy an eternity on Nirn? Everything was bound to repeat itself after some time: wars, flirting with women, hunting… Wait, _did_ elves actually flirt and hunt?

Anitul's answer cut his musings short. "With enough time given, we get very, _very_ good at what we do. And we can follow the history of Tamriel for longer periods…"

"And twist it to your needs ever so often!" Thorald brutally interjected.

Anitul pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a long-suffering sigh. "As if Stormcloak lore was free of propaganda… People in charge sticking to the facts, and only the facts? That's a rare thing. History is often written by the victorious. Happenings, that cast a bad light on the fame of your employer, are omitted and so on."

But the philosophical debate was interrupted by Rothil Slave-Master squeezing a waterskin, disgusting kitchen garbage and a smelly rabbit leg through the bars into the cell. "Dinner time!" he sung mock-cheerfully. "After all, we want to keep you alive as blood-stock. Of course, this isn't a menu of that famous gourmet of yours. Well we vampires don't _need_ to cook. We live on blood. Aren't we lucky?" With that, the slave master grinned wickedly, showing his pointy fangs.

Thorald and Anitul both made faces. Thorald's grimace was truly murderous, Anitul's merely annoyed.

"Aaww, don't look at me like that." Rothil continued. "Maybe the gift of Molag Bal's undying blood will change your attitudes? But it's not for _me_ to decide, who's going to be made a vampire. That choice is up to Lord Volkihar and maybe his lieutenants, Vingalmo and Orthjolf. Some day, I'm going to tell you the tale of how the very first daughter of Coldharbour was created. Such an unwholesome, eerie legend! It will do _wonders_ as a bedtime story. But I've got other hungry mouths to feed. A jailer's work is never done." Rothil left to bring other "food" from divines-know-where.

"I wish he would stumble on some stairs, trip and break his neck!" Thorald ranted. "But vampires can regenerate and heal such injuries, right? Damn!"

"Yes, it might become difficult to get rid of him." Anitul agreed. "Who knows how many desperate 'surprise attacks' he's already experienced in his time? He'll be on his guard, like us back at Northwatch Keep. This whole castle is full of vampires. About two dozen were joining in the attack after all. We've only seen the ground floor. And there are gargoyles."

"These butt-ugly statues?" Thorald asked.

"Oh, they are so much more than statues. But I don't want to spoil our appetite further, if that's even possible. Let's see what we have here. Do you want the hairy, blackened carrot or the shrivelled cabbage leaf? I can also discern potato peels with just a bit of potato clinging to them. And of course the rabbit leg. Yuck! It smells as if it would run away on its own at any given moment. But we need the proteins dearly, so who will take what end?" Anitul japed.

"I'll take the outer thigh muscle and pretend it was elk." Thorald replied sullenly.

For the next minutes, they dug into the chow gagging and retching from time to time. Dividing the water was more troublesome. Rothil had only given them _one_ waterskin.

"Now who's going to take the first sip?" Thorald asked, seemingly to himself.

"Don't even _try_ to bring up the word 'sullied'." Anitul warned him. "The chow has already done a good job of sullying our mouths. Racist remarks are unneeded for now."

"Good gracious!" Thorald huffed. "I wasn't about to make a nasty remark on your oral micro-organisms. I really wasn't. The room service hasn't brought us mugs yet. And we may wait for them until the 12th of never. So…" he shrugged. "Old age before beauty as my folks say. _You_ take the first gulp. Just don't make it too greedy."

After that dispute was settled, they both drank. Thorald and Anitul, man and mer, were still not very comfortable around each other. But they were at least _trying_ to keep civil. And they were improving. They hadn't come to blows yet. They had shared a "meal" (however rotten). And they were hatching the tiniest of escape plans or rather testing the waters. So there was still a sliver of hope.

Author's notes: I mostly made up the family relations between the members of the Grey-Mane clan, put them in an order that makes sense to me. And yes: it's _been_ a long wait for such a relatively small chapter. Writing those dialogues was hard work.


	4. Dungeon-delving for a good cause

Author's notes: Hi folks! This will be another chapter featuring Miss Scale. She'll delve through Dimhollow Crypt with all the ensuing troubles. This story will contain hefty spoilers for the Dawnguard DLC. And I hereby acknowledge, that TES V: Skyrim belongs to Bethesda Software. Only Miss Scale and some of the OC are my invention. But now: on with the story!

Chapter 4: Dungeon-delving for a good cause

The next morning, Miss Scale got up from her camp bed and groaned. "Aaah I hurt all over! Thisss iss not how a lady ssshould sssleep." Next, she inspected her new gear. Upon looking closer, she noticed that the leather was covered with countless little steel plates, and not so much studs. She shed her novice mage robes and pulled the Dawnguard armour over her head. Boy, that thing was heavy! Then she exchanged her old orcish bow for the new crossbow. But she kept her enhanced dagger. She also didn't forget to visit the kennels. "Hi Bran! That'sss a good boy Ssscaelong!" she chirped happily. Both dogs were panting and occasionally barking. And breakfast was due. She rummaged through every chest and barrel and finally found her perfect honey-nut-stick. Miss Scale had such a sweet tooth, especially in the morning.

She also explored the upper floor which was rather small. Among the two or so rooms was a nasty torture chamber with neat little rows of skulls on shelves and bloodstains. Ugh! The other room was probably Isran's bedroom. Speaking of Isran, she said her good-bye and left. "All right, let'sss help vigilant Tolan." Miss Scale said. "Yes, you'd better get going. It's a long way to Dimhollow Crypt." So she left Castle Dawnguard and the Dawnguard Canyon altogether.

Miss Scale took the road back to Rifton. She dealt with three stray wolves and summoned a sword for that cause, a blue shimmering deadra-style blade. There was much snarling and biting but before summoning the sword, Miss Scale had used the oakskin-spell on herself. Therefore, luckily the bites didn't go too deep. She patched herself up with minor healing potions and reached the Rifton had also obtained a ragdoll and some candies at Brand-Shei's market stall in Rifton. It was nice to talk her native tongue again, though Brand-Shei was a Dunmer. But he'd been fostered and raised by an argonian couple in Blackmarsh. From Rifton, Miss Scale took the carriage again and rode to Whiterun. There, she paid Breezehome a visit and talked to Lucia, her adopted daughter.

Lucia had been a Breton orphan. Her parents had died and the farm had gone to her aunt and uncle. But they had turned out truly nasty, had called Lucia a useless brat and chased her away. So Lucia had ended up in Whiterun's wind quarter and begged people for coins on the Gildengreen-Tree-Plaza. Miss Scale had taken pity on the girl. As soon as she owned her own house, she had furnished a children's room and adopted Lucia. She had adopted her and never rued it. But taking in an orphan didn't mean rainbows day after day. There were also sad and hard moments like saying good-bye.

"Lucia dearessst…" she started.

"Mommy, mommy you're home!" Lucia shouted exitedly. "Have you got something for me?"

"Yesss girl, let me rummage through my baggage. Oh what do we have here?" she asked in mock-astonishment.

"Candies and a new doll! It looks great with the red skirt and the black vest. Thank you so much." Lucia shouted. "But you're wearing strange new armour."

"Yesss, that'sss right. I have to leave for some daysss, Lucia. And before you asssk: no, I _can't_ take you along. Way too dangerousss."

"Awww!" Lucia pouted.

"No, ssserioussly, I'm about to delve into a vampire den. Theyssa not be nice to little girlsss." Miss Scale explained.

Lucia's expression changed from sad to awestruck in a matter of seconds. "Vampires?! That's – oh my gosh. But you've still got time for a round of hide-and-seek?" she asked.

"Yess let'sss do that." Miss Scale agreed. She closed her eyes and began to chant.

Cornerstone, cornerstone /

Everyone go into hiding now. /

Before me and behind me /

It doesn't count. /

I'm coming!

Then she searched through Breezehome. That was done quickly. Breezehome was a very modest house without any wings or basement. No Lucia anywhere *sigh*. So she went out into the streets of the Lowland District. And she scoured through them: the canal at the Warmaiden Forge? Nope. Round the hut of the fortune-teller, Olava the Feeble? Nope. The Drunken Huntsman pub? Divines forbid! Lucia was only seven years old. Arcadia's Copper Cauldron? Nope. Belethor's Mixed Goods store? Nope. Miss Scale was truly at a loss. But Anoriath the butcher was giving her a sly wink. Then he bent down and called under his stall: "I'll take pity on your poor ma now! Here she's hiding, next to stacks of beef jerkey." Miss Scale came over smiling but had to apologize when a furious Lucia called Anoriath a "pointy-eared tell-tale".

Then she filled her pack with provisions, grabbed her weapons and left Whiterun. She crossed the tundra in northern direction to the mountains separating Whiterun hold from the Pale and Hjaalmarch. Near the old tomb of Volunruud she climbed a peak and searched her way down on the other side. Dimhollow Crypt was situated near the shrine of Mehrunes Dagon and the standing stone of the Lord zodiac. A burning torch marked the entry of the cave.

Miss Scale sneaked into the first vault and listened in to a conversation between two vampires. They bragged about how they'd finished off a vigilant of Stendarr and burned the Hall of Vigilance to the ground. They were also hoping for new arrivals and said they were thirsty. And they heaped scorn on deceased fellow vampires, calling them arrogant and stupid,

Miss Scale snuck up on them and drew her crossbow. She aimed thoroughly and pulled the trigger. The first bolt hit the male vampire square in the chest. He hissed and turned to dust a moment later. The female vampire put up more of a fight. She let loose a stream of draining leech curse but Miss Scale put another three bolts into her: chest, head and belly. So that bitch was pretty dead as well and turned to dust. But while Miss Scale was distracted, she heard a tell-tale growl behind her. She tried to turn around but felt an icy maw close around her tail and bite down hard. A cowardly death-hound was jerking at her tail and the agony made her eyes water. "Bad dog!" she yelled. "Out and lay down." But of course, the death-hound was misbehaved. So she drew her orcish dagger which she had enchanted with a magicka draining hex. Maybe it would do some good against that awful cold dog-breath? It was difficult to reach the cursed Rottweiler but she managed to stab it repeatedly. *yelp* *yowl* *whimper* After half a dozen or so stabs and slashes, the death-hound went limp and released her tail.

"Ouch!" Miss Scale cried. "I need ssseveral healing potionsss right now." She drank them greedily. Aaah sweet relief! Then, she tucked the dog's collar away as a trophy. Some merchants were willing to pay 50 septims for such an oddity. After that was done, she looked around. Near a flowerbed with snowberry bushes she found poor vigilant Tolan, who was already dead. It was unmistakeably him: the alteration mage robes, the amulet of Stendarr, several heal-disease-potions and personal items. But what stood out the most was his bald, square head with the fair sideburns. Poor man, he had lost a fight against two vampires. Seeing that there was nothing and no one to save anymore, Miss Scale tried to go further into the tomb. But a sturdy drawgate blocked her path. She moaned: "Oh jussst great! There'sss got to be a contraption to lift the damn thing sssomewhere." She looked around and spotted a little tower in a dark corner of the cave. She climbed into the tower and found an enchanted sword in a sarcophagus, several potions, gems and coins…aaand the chain to pull and open the gate. So pull it she did. And the gate lifted with much rattling and creaking.

The further corridors, stairs and halls were purely ancient Nordic in style. There were carvings along some passageways, swirling wave and spiral patterns. There was the portrait of the bearded man. There were these strange black stonecarvings shaped like the heads of birds-of-prey or other predators with a gaping mouth. There was pottery in abundance. And there were generous additions of roots, dangling greenery and cobwebs – lots of cobwebs. She also passed several dead draugr. It looked as if the vampires hadn't been gentle with their fellow undead. And skeletons literally _crawled_ from the ground to bother her. She used her enhanced orcish bow to shoot them, because crossbow bolts were precious and hard to come by. She saved the crossbow for the odd vampire. Later, Miss Scale stumbled over vampires who were already engaged in skirmishes against draugr and frostbite spiders. Yes, there was a maze-like passage with many dead ends practically _encrusted_ with cobwebs and egg-cocoons. Miss Scale patiently waited who the victor would be. Then she roasted the weakened vampires with magical fire. And she barbecued death hounds which were trying to bite her again. By and by, her health potions became less. She had to rely on her food then: soup in sealed jars, roasted meat, sweet treats, grilled leek and others.

After what felt like hours of walking, Miss Scale stopped dead in her tracks. Well _that_ sight was certainly unexpected! The architecture was about to change completely. She saw pointed arches and other gothic elements like banisters and butt-ugly gargoyles. And another grid – this time of sturdy wood – got in her way. Though this time, she was glad for it. Behind the grid, a vampire master fought the biggest fucking frostbite spider Miss Scale had ever seen. She gave off a terrified hiss as she witnessed how the vampire master sorely lost. The nearly mammoth-sized pest tackled the blood-sucker with its front legs and stabbed with its wicked, pointy mandibles. The vampire master shrieked one last time and turned to dust.

"Oohh" Miss Scale wailed. "There'sss really no other way around thisss freak, isss there? *gulp* Then, I'd better pull that lever other there and give it all I've got." She pulled the lever and the gate lowered into the floor. Then, she pumped a crossbow bolt into the spider's abdomen to get its attention. That worked a little _too_ well. Miss Scale had to duck out of the way of flying venomous spider-spittle. Hastily, she changed to destruction magic and electrocuted the spider. Luckily, it was already weakened from its fight against the vampire master. The thing danced on all eight legs, sparks running over its body. And after that, an estimate of half a ton of spider went *splat* on the floor and was no more.

Miss Scale heaved a sigh of relief. Then she downed several magicka potions. And she continued her way through a great wooden castle gate.

Beyond the gate, she found herself in a huuuuge cavern. Balconies were built into the cavern, stairs too… And there squatted another horde of gargoyles. They were still peaceful. On one of these black stone pedestals lay a scroll of some mighty mumbo-jumbo like "firestorm" or "scourge of the undead". Miss Scale eyed the scroll warily. She knew all too well that these trinkets were often placed on a trigger with malicious intent. She touched the scroll with shy fingers and carefully lifted it a tiny bit. No harm done! So she wiped her brow and tucked the scroll into her backpack. And she went on, sneaking and creeping. Again, she overheard conversations between vampires. There was a big badass vampire called Lorkil. And he was desperately trying to figure out a very strange apparatus. Concentric circles of pillars and arches, movable braziers and a strange button on an even stranger monolith… Lorkil was accompanied by two female vampires and a thrall.

There also was the dead body of a certain Adalvald with his chest stripped naked and his journal lying nearby. So many lost causes in such a short time! Miss Scale shook her head sadly. She crept into shooting distance and pondered on who to pierce first. Perhaps the risks were lowest with the thrall? Bad choice… She managed to kill the thrall with a precise shot to the neck. However, one of the female vampires used her vampiric skills to instantly raise the corpse. Yuck! That would have been too good to be true. So Miss Scale had to take care of this female vampire ASAP. Not to mention the other bitch and Lorkil. Miss Scale sorely wished she had hired a mercenary or invited Uthgerd for the trip. But lamenting would get her nowhere. She decided to go into melee. She summoned her magical blade and pulled the oakskin spell around her with the left hand. And things went south from thereon. Well they went south for the vampires. She became a whirlwind of hacking and slashing motions. The vampires drew their own blades and draining leech spells. Miss Scale swung at them each in turn. The spell on her left hand switched to flames. After what felt like an eternity, three heaps of vampire dust lay on the floor surrounded by the respective gear of each bloodsucker. Miss Scale huffed and wheezed like a dragon with a nasty cold. Then she downed her last cure-disease-potion, just to be sure.

She squatted down and read through the diary of late Brother Adalvald. It revealed almost nothing new to Miss Scale. A huge cave with structures younger than the ancient Nordic crypt, a subterranean lake with an island in the middle aaand a bridge. Well bridges are there for being crossed. So she did just that. Then there was the block of stone with the button on top. Buttons exist to be pushed. So she did… and howled in agony a few seconds later. A mean metal spike had shot out of the button and pierced her hand completely. Miss Scale hiss clearly annoyed and waved said hand about. "What'sss wrong with thessse ssstupid machinesss? They are all out for my blood lately. Dart trapsss, flame throwersss, ssswinging gridsss…" But mid-rant, she suddenly stopped. "Oh!" she breathed.

Her surroundings had changed. Miss Scale saw circles of purple-blue energy veils all around her. She used a one handed healing spell to undo the damage the spike had caused. Clearly, her blood had triggered this apparition. Well these energy veils were not harmful in any way. She could pass through them. The apparatus expected her to do something else though. Like shift the braziers along the rails underneath them? She tried it until at a certain position, blue flames ignited in the brazier. "Hmm blue flamessss look good. I ssupposse that'sss the way it'sss got to be. One brazier locked umpteen ssstill to go!" Miss Scale said to herself. So she shifted all the braziers until blue flames ignited in them. And the apparatus came to the next stage. The floor in the centre of the whole thing dipped a bit. And the monolith was raised even higher. Wait…that wasn't a solid block of stone! Miss Scale noticed a tiny vertical gap along one side of the surface. She knocked tentatively. The thing was clearly hollow. She tried to pry it open and it worked.

"By the Hissst! Do wondersss never ceassse in thisss dratted crypt?" Miss Scale wondered aloud. A woman wearing leather armour stood in the stone box. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest. The leather armour was black with some faint red accents. The woman's hair was also black, or dark brown for that matter. Miss Scale couldn't tell with the poor lighting. But the woman wore her hair straight save for two thin braids on each side of her face. She must have been asleep for quite some time. Now though, she awoke. And she keeled over. If Miss Scale hadn't caught her, the strange woman would have landed flat on her face.

Miss Scale helped her up but recoiled as soon as she caught a glimpse of the woman's eyes. They were a piercing shade of orange.

"*Sssshhh* Don't come any nearer than arm'sss length vampire!" Miss Scale hissed.

"Ugh. Mother? Wait, who are _you_? And what's the year?" the woman asked groggily.

"I am Miss Scale, an argonian…adventurer. And the year is 201 of the fourth era." Miss Scale replied.

"An adventurer who so happens to wear Dawnguard armour?" the mysterious woman quipped.

"Aaaww dang, you have me busssted!" Miss Scale cried. "Yesss I recently joined the Dawnguard to ensssure their help in… Well it'sss complicated. The Dawnguard sssent me to invessstigate thisss crypt. Thought there wasss a vampire artefact hidden down here."

"Well that would have been me. The name's Serana. I'd like to keep on first name basis for now. Listen, I know you could just kill me. Then, you'd have slaughtered yet another vampire. Great job!" the woman said sarcastically. "But I'm part of something _big._ I can't tell you more yet. After all, we just met. I'll go and satisfy my "needs" elsewhere, if that's what you're worried about."

"Yesss I would be highly grateful Ssserana." Miss Scale replied.

"The fourth era?!" Serana suddenly threw in. "My mother locked me down here in the _first_ era. She said, she would come back but…"

"What kind of mother locksss her daughter in a ssstone box and literally for agesss at that?" Miss Scale asked incredulously.

"That's a long story. I can't tell you more yet. I don't know whom I can trust. Give me some time to adjust to modern times." Serana asked. "Well I wonder who the current high king of Skyrim is?" she added as an afterthought.

"Dependsss on whom you asssk." Miss Scale said.

"That bad?" Serana asked.

"Worssse." Miss Scale replied. "A civil war isss ravaging Ssskyrim. There are thossse ssstill loyal to the empire. But sssaid empire banned the worssship of Talosss becaussse the Thalmor forced them to. And the ressst of the Nordss want to sssplit from the empire. They follow Ulfric Ssstormcloak who challenged the former high king to a duel and killed him. Now there'sss utter chaosss!" After that short political essay, she had to catch a breath.

"Empire? What empire are you talking about?" Serana asked.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Miss Scale called exasperatedly. "It'sss the empire of Cyrodiil, founded by Tiber Sssseptim. You've never heard of thossse two?"

"What if I didn't?" Serana challenged. "I only know this: my nap was longer than I ever thought possible."

"Ssseems ssso." Miss Scale said.

"I know I'm asking a lot but… Could you escort me home? This dank cave is obviously _not_ home. I grew up in a castle on a tiny island in the Sea of Ghosts. The island is near Solitude. Solitude still exists, yes?" Serana asked.

"Yesss, yess…" Miss Scale said absentmindedly. After a few moments, she continued. "Well you aren't very forthcoming I mussst sssay. But you're lucky: I'm a nice Argonian. And asss long ass you don't go blood-letting _me…_ Welcome to the sssmall team! I wasss after all in need of help. Well let'sss find the exit of thisss dungeon,ssshall we?"

And she clapped Serana on the shoulder good-naturedly. A part of Serana's cloak shifted and Miss Scale got a glimpse of something golden and stick-like, with a small handle at one end and violet jewels attached. She gasped and asked: "Isss that an elder scroll?"

"Yes it is, and before you ask: No you _can't_ take a peek." Serana answered.

"But it isssn't it delicate? Do we have to take ssspecial measures?" Miss Scale asked.

"Delicate? Hah!" Serana snorted. "Absolutely nothing could destroy an elder scroll. You shouldn't burden yourself with such worries. Now let's get going."

And so the two women did.

Another author's notes: Whew! That was a long chapter. Well with the dialogue between Miss Scale and Serana I didn't stick to the game word for word. But I think I still transported the general idea. In the next chapter I'll switch back to Thorald Grey-Mane and his new buddy Anitul. Or I'll write about the grieving at a certain embassy. I don't know yet. Please review.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's notes: Hi folks! I got over my bout of Trump-itis. ( *phew* and wiping my brow) I think I'll continue the story with lovely scenes at Castle Volkihar. I have to correct a small mistake though. I mixed up the name of everybody's favourite asshole jailer. _That_ certain vampire is called Rargal Slave-Master. Expect another round of Thalmor whumping!

Disclaimer: I certainly don't own TES V: Skyrim. That's the privilege of Bethesda Software. But now: on with the story.

* * *

Chapter 5: The choosing and the chosen

The thumping of stone beating on some other substance woke Thorald Grey-Mane from an uneasy sleep. He sat up from his pile of straw and groggily asked: "Hey Anitul! Anitul Sirmarion! What the fuck are you doing? You woke me up."

The Altmer looked up from his work on the dirty floor. He held a middle-sized pebble in his hand and huffed an impatient sigh. "I'm _trying_ to improvise a lock-pick. Maybe bone will work. But to that end, I need to smash the rabbit leg. Which should be more important than your beauty sleep."

Thorald grumbled something along the lines of "arrogant jerk" but he didn't make further objections. Anitul went back to his project. After many more smashes, the bone was split. There was still some marrow in it but it stank! "Eewww, I can't force myself to eat _that._ How about you?", Anitul grumbled.

"Oh no, no, no… Thank you but _no._ I'll pass. The meat already challenged my digestive system enough. I don't know, if the bucket in this hellhole has ever seen so much poop in one day. I…" Thorald replied.

"You should spare me further details, you really should. " Anitul threw in. Looking at the bone critically, he added: "I could whittle a hook at the end of this bone. Yes, should be do-able."

"Well don't let Rargal catch you. But the coast seems to be clear now. The bastard's probably busy elsewhere." Thorald advised him.

"Or having some coffin-time…" Anitul said. He banged the pebble on the cell-gate bars to break it to a sharp edge. The other prisoners didn't care much for the noise. Vampiric seduction spells had put a nearly complete daze on their minds.

For example the poor Argonian in the cell across the room. He only lifted his head, uttered a confused "Huh?" and stared off into space. The beast-man looked downright miserable. That was alarming for normally, Argonians were as healthy as an ox.

"The lizard's seen better days." Thorald Grey-Mane remarked not bothering if he was rude.

" _All_ mortals in this place have seen better days. That's all the more reason to pull the wispmother so-to-say; to make a disappearance." Anitul clarified. *clang, clang* "Oh that's it! The pebble broke in two. The edge is… Well I won't be able to shave myself…"

"You also lack a mirror, oaf." Thorald interjected.

"Buut…" Anitul replied somewhat miffed. "It should be sufficient for whittling bone."

So the Altmer went to work with his long-fingered hands.

x x x

In the great hall, the senior vampires of clan Volkihar were assembled for a council. Harkon Volkihar sat at the lord's table on his wooden throne. The chairs at his left and right side were occupied by his lieutenants Vingalmo and Orthjolf. The Altmer and the Nord didn't get along at all. From time to time they secretly glared daggers at each other. Vingalmo thought of Orthjolf as nothing but an over-ambitious brute. And Orthjolf viewed Vingalmo as an arrogant, fork-tongued court-fop.

The rest of the U-shaped table arrangement was taken by the others of Lord Harkon's house-folk. There were two Dunmer vampires, Garan Marethi and Feran Sadri. Both were mages and scholars of sorts and they were smart enough to stay at a safe distance from the mean plots and intrigues of Orthjolf or Vingalmo. Then, there was Hestla, a former member of the Companions. Fura Blood-Mouth, the castle blacksmith, was also present. At the furthest ends of the table sat the much-scorned jailer Rargal Slave-Master and Ronthil the wood-elf (?). [ Zeschi's notes:Well it _is_ hard to tell the different types of elves apart, once they developed sanguine vampiris!] Ronthil was Feran Sadri's apprentice and the friendly trader for goods and wares of all kinds. The other vampires were just barely above staff and pretty boring to talk to. Last in line were the couple of death-hounds that always roamed the halls.

And now Lord Harkon spoke jovially. He addressed the jailer. "Rargal, how are the new prisoners doing? I hope you don't pamper them. Have you already gained some insight on who will be good vampire material and who will live a short, unhappy life as blood-cattle?"

At these last words, Lord Harkon made vague gestures with his cutlery in direction to the spell-dazed humans spread on the table. The ancient vampire liked to overdo the refined-noble-act now and again. So he sometimes used a knife where he could just as well simply sink his fangs into the necks of helpless "dinner". It was something about "going easy on his teeth" – or so he claimed.

"I'm afraid to say this, but of the dozen or so survivors of Northwatch Keep only _two_ seem to be…adequate. Most of the Altmer are cursing, wailing to Auri-el or throwing around empty threats and pompous demands. They put up an embarrassing show. The two humans and the Argonian are in a worse state. They _have_ already been thoroughly broken by the Thalmor. But there's a promising couple: a Thalmor soldier called Anitul Sirma-something and a certain Thorald Grey-Mane from Whiterun, headstrong fellow he is. I put them in a cell _together_. Originally, it was for my own private amusement. I wanted to see when they would go at each other's throats. But no such luck yet! They managed to stay civil so far. They even have energy left to make tools and plot their escape. And I've been feeding them the worst chow Nirn has ever seen!" At this point in his report, Rargal was interrupted by cold-hearted laughter, whoops and jeers.

"They believe they're so clever, yes indeed. They always underestimate dumb, crude Rargal. They never think I'd have the brains to spy on them. These two should be promising candidates." Rargal finished his little speech.

Now Vingalmo rose out of his chair and gave a small bow towards Lord Harkon. "My lord may I ask a favour?" he said.

"Yes you may, Vingalmo. You've earned yourself that much with the support in planning the raid. Please go ahead." Lord Harkon replied.

"Please let me be the one to turn this Anitul. I'd like to have an apprentice, not just underlings. While I am immortal and highly skilled…" Here, Orthjolf rolled his eyes and didn't even try to suppress a snort. "I am _very_ much aware of the…surprises and snares of un-life, present people included. So I want to leave my legacy." Vingalmo finished with dignity. But then, he sent a death-glare Orthjolf's way, all grace forgotten.

Lord Harkon followed the little spat with his piercing, yellow-orange eyes. All the while he smirked like the proverbial cat that had eaten the bird. Then, he gave his opinion. "Well of course, I'd like to grace you with a student of your own. Enthralling a mortal and then passing over the… _gift_ : that's such an intimate, rewarding experience. But we still need a sacrifice for Molag Bal's summoning."

"But aren't these sacrifices usually female, my lord? These gatherings are called ' _Daughters_ of Coldharbour' after all." Vingalmo asked somewhat confused.

"I've been observing this Anitul Sirmarion too, from time to time. He seems to have many girlish qualities." Lord Harkon replied innocently. Well as innocently, as his vampiric state allowed.

"I knew it! Vingalmo wants a sweetheart. How _cute._ ", Orthjolf crowed maliciously.

The shamed Altmer vampire silently counted on three. Then he blew an icy breath out of his nose. Internally and for the umpteenth time, he wondered: "Argh, Molag Bal! Why didn't I kill this ape ages ago? Or maybe it's Auri-el who wants to make my un-life miserable?"

But Lord Harkon came to Vingalmo's aid and chastised Orthjolf: "Oh _do_ shut up Orthjolf! That remark was hardly proper. Remember there's such a thing as house-peace. I will only let your unfriendly 'banter' get _so_ far."

To Vingalmo he said: "All right, you convinced me. The next night, you may pay Anitul a little visit. But you might want to transfer his changing to another location than a stinking prison cell. We'll put one of the female Thalmor prisoners on Molag Bal's altar, even if we have to carry her to the chapel kicking and screaming."

"Thank you my lord. I'll put all my effort and skills in this future child of the night." Vingalmo replied. Then he sat back down and took his silver goblet from the table. He didn't know and didn't care _whose_ blood was in there but it had a heady and sweet aroma. Things were going his way once more.

x x x

In the jail area, Thorald Grey-Mane and Anitul Sirmarion were still blissfully unaware of what had been decided by Lord Harkon. Anitul had finally managed to whittle a little hook at the end of the rabbit leg.

"Hey Thorald, my little work of art is finally finished." the elf called across the small cell. "Let's try it on this blasted lock. Wish me good luck. I only have this single 'lock-pick'."

"If only I had my good old battle-axe 'Fenrir'!." Thorald replied wistfully. "I'd smash that lock to pieces in no time at all."

The Altmer gave him a crooked grin. "First thing that we did, when you came into our custody, was to relieve you of that beast. It's probably still stashed away in mistress En-Yalamel's chest."

Thorald feigned indignation. "Beast? That's no way to talk about such an awesome weapon. And didn't I tell you that I never wanted to hear the name of that hag ever again? Now get working on that lock, if you'd be so kind." While saying this he made shooing hand gestures.

And Anitul managed to pick the lock. Surely it took a while. And the Altmer had to be extra-careful as bone wasn't the sturdiest material. But after five minutes, the cell door sprang open.

When both man and mer stood in the aisle of the Volkihar jail they engaged in a hushed but heated discussion.

"Shouldn't we at least _try_ to break the locks of the other cells? No one deserves to rot in such a place." Thorald said.

"And how do you think this might work?" Anitul asked exasperatedly. "I only have this one bone lock-pick. I managed to break out of our cell by pure luck. Just look at these people! Most of them are under vampiric soothing spells. They are so dazed and brainwashed that they won't be able to cooperate. And as for those still fully aware of their surroundings: Do you want to risk a stampede in here? That might draw a bit of attention."

"Argh, you're insufferable!" Thorald whispered. "There are _your folk_ locked up as well. But do as you please. I'm going to look for further lock-picks and some gear that doesn't consist in rags."

So they agreed to disagree and split up. Thorald Grey-Mane started to rifle through Rargal's chests, wardrobes and possessions. At last, he found a simple iron dagger. An axe would have been better but beggars can't be choosers. Then, he crept and slunk through that grisly storage area. There were huge blood-smeared barrels filled with… well, obviously _not_ mead or beer. Thorald didn't really want to know more. But as he reached the end of the winding corridors, he saw the vampires retiring for the day. Or for the night? Huh, whatever! Thorald was slightly panicked and very frustrated. He hadn't found any lock-picks. And a certain Rargal Slave-Master was coming his way.

So he slunk back to the jail area desperately looking for a hiding-place. Burry himself in that heap of bones? Nah, too risky! But then, he spotted a grid covering the sewers. He tried what was left of his strength on the bars… And luckily, he could wrench the grid open. Surely Rargal must have heard the awful screeching and squeaking. So Thorald wasted no time. He dove into the stinking "water" or whatever fluid that it was.

Rargal Slave-Master noticed several things as he came back from the banquet: one cell door stood ajar; a certain man-and-mer couple had vanished aaand the grid to the sewers had been wrenched off. However, Rargal wasn't upset. He grinned a slow, mean smirk. He knew all too well, where these sewers were headed: to the old Volkihar crypt which was a place teeming with death-hounds, skeletons and the great-grandmother of all frostbite spiders on Volkihar Island. But still, amusing as this was, he needed to report the escape to Lord Harkon.

x x x

Anitul Sirmarion had fared somewhat better. He had crept to the castle forge without being seen. Fura Blood-Mouth was already snoring in her coffin. "Rock-a-bye vampire / the coffin is red…" So he could grab some fur armour and a steel sword. Finding _fitting_ fur armour was a bit more difficult. Like most Altmer, Anitul had a tall and lanky physique. But an oversized set of fur breeches with matching helmet, gauntlets and boots did a lot to further protect him. Then, Anitul snuck towards the great hall. It was suspiciously empty. Anitul made a short halt and pondered on how to continue. Then he decided to make a dash for the main gate. And he walked right into a trap! He came to a skidding stop as two black-shrouded beasts peeled themselves from the shadows. Those were nothing else than the snarling duo of death-hounds: CuoSith and Gormr. Anitul drew his stolen steel sword to defend himself from icy bites.

But some deadric lord really wanted to ruin his day today. A taunting voice sounded from behind him. "Tut, tut, tut _so_ predictable. Who would have guessed that your Nord buddy had more smarts than you. The main gate? Really? That's so obvious. Now put that sword down before you hurt yourself."

Of course, said voice belonged to Vingalmo. Busted! Anitul ground his teeth and twisted his face to an ugly frown. Then he turned around. Vingalmo's hands were covered in green light. Green light? Uh-oh, illusion spell ahead! That was Anitul's last clear thought. A second later he was hit by this green light. And then, things went…strange.

"Wait, what am I doing here? And why am I wielding a sword? This other Altmer looks pretty friendly." Anitul thought to himself. So he stuck the blade back into the scabbard.

"Aww, it seems like you're lost." Vingalmo said in a falsely pitying voice. "Why don't you come here? I can show you the way to…safety, a really nice place."

And Anitul in his dazed, cobwebbed-brain state obeyed without further questions. He followed Vingalmo to the common vampire dormitory. It was a room crowded with coffins. Coffins leaning against the walls, coffins lying on the floor, coffins everywhere! And here, Anitul was assaulted by Vingalmo. The elder high elf jumped on him and dug his fangs into Anitul's neck.

And just before Anitul's world turned black, he wondered: "Safety? Then why do I feel so sick?" And his body crumpled on the floor. This poor body of his had to adapt to a lot of changes and violations. His whole metabolism was going to be turned upside down and inside out, not to mention his soul! Such were the "blessings" of Molag Bal. Anitul's skin took on an unhealthy, gray-ish hue. And the infamous fangs started to grow in his mouth.

Vingalmo watched the whole grisly process fascinated. He dusted his hands off and started to hum a tune.

* * *

Author's notes: Sorry for the long wait! But I only write when I'm in the mood. And that may take its sweet time. But I hope it was worth the wait. Please review.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's notes: Hi folks! I'm spilling my thoughts in another chapter. This one will switch the action back to Miss Scale and her newfound buddy Serana. How they worm their way out of Dimhollow Crypt and hike to Solitude and beyond. Please read and review.

Disclaimer: I only own Miss Scale and the few OCs I made up. TES V: Skyrim belongs to Bethesda Software. No Zeschi-profit is being gained here.

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Chapter 6: The joys of babysitting a vampire lord's daughter

Miss Scale and Serana left the island to the other direction. They were on solid ground once more when they suddenly heard the loud sound of stone bursting and an ensuing *screech*.

"Oh no! I almost forgot about _these_ guys." Serana moaned.

"What do you mean? What isss ssso terrible?" asked a slightly confused Miss Scale.

"Gargoyles" Serana spat. "Originally, mother placed them here to protect me from would-be tomb raiders. They should remember me but they will shift their aggressions on _you._ You're a complete stranger to them."

Miss Scale visibly gulped. "The godsss be praisssed there'sss only one of them tough mean beastsss." But just as she said that, another statue was cracking to let loose a horrible monster. "Oh ssshit!" the Argonian cried.

"Yes your praising the gods needs better timing or reconsideration." Serana said sarcastically. "Well let's defend ourselves, shall we? These brutes mean business."

Miss Scale took the crossbow from her back and Serana drew her sword and charged her left hand with the ice-spike-spell. The large monsters attacked with punches and vampiric life-draining spells. And as formidable as a crossbow was, the bolts could hardly pierce the gargoyles' skin. Serana did more damage with her elven blade. So Miss Scale tucked the crossbow away again and charged her hands with the spark-shock-spell. *bzzz* And the screeches of the gargoyles rose to a new pitch.

Still it was a pretty hard fight, scratches included and the odd cracked rib. But at long last, the gargoyles lay dead on the floor.

Miss Scale huffed and wheezed. Then she said: "Asss much asss I'd like to heal you SSSerana, ressstoration magic and undead beingsss don't mix well."

"Yes, my flesh isn't 'divine' enough." Serana said, emphasising 'divine' in a mocking way. "But don't worry. I may have had worse during the night of my…*err* turning. And before you ask: No I don't want to think back on that ceremony. Let's just say it was humiliating. You don't want to know the details, you really don't."

Miss Scale winced and narrowed her eyes. In order to change the topic, she said: "Look, beyond thisss banissster seemsss to be a ramp leading to an exit."

They re-entered the ancient Nordic section of the crypt. They searched a large room and Miss Scale found a few items spread out on an altar. Among those was a spell tome. She read the title aloud. "Necromantic healing. Thisss might come in handy. I ssshould learn thisss ssspell to help you. Yess, it'sss not beyond my level of expertissse and magicka."

"Oh yes, by any means do so.", Serana said. These spell tomes were fantastic! Miss Scale opened the cover and the pages turned themselves at a dizzying speed. All the knowledge was automatically stuffed into Miss Scale's head. It left her feeling somewhat groggy for a few moments but oh well… The spell tome itself had turned to dust after the process.

Then, the two women mounted some stairs to the upper level of the room. To their annoyance the way further out of the crypt was blocked again by a sturdy drop-gate. And a lever was situated on a circular platform. But the lever was surrounded by many sarcophagi. The whole combination shouted "trap" all over the place. But they didn't have any choice. They _had_ to pull the lever if they ever wanted to see the light of day again. So Serana did just that. The drop-gate lifted with much rattling. But there was also the sound of several cracks that indicated opening sarcophagi. The two women were soon swarmed by a small crowd of draugr.

These draugr were just so *ugh*: withered mortal remains covered in grey, shrivelled skin, remains of armour dangling from their bony frames. And their eye-sockets shone in that eerie blue-white light. But fire magic was highly effective against them. So Miss Scale ignited her hands and Serana made ample use of her ice-spike-spell. The mob of draugr met some serious resistance. Miss Scale roasted them with a two-handed flame spell and ducked (or _tried_ to duck) out of the way of clumsy but painful counter-attacks. It took a while to kill even the lowliest draugr (a second time!) as the flame spell was one of the weakest fire spells in the school of destruction. All the while, Serana kept a bit more distance to the undead and "shot" them with ice-spikes and astonishing accuracy. When a draugr actually _managed_ to come into touching distance, Serana used the elven sword with her right hand.

After some moments of fretful action both women were surrounded by a semi-circle of six draugr – put to rest again. "That was…challenging." Serana said. "They don't even respect their fellow undead."

"But asss I underssstand it, you come from the sssame culture asss them?" Miss Scale said. "Explorersss and immigrantsss from Atmora."

"Yes but maybe they were from an enemy clan. Or their memories have just gone rotten with the millennia they spent down here." Serana said. "Anyhow, it's time to patch ourselves up and continue."

So Miss Scale first used the basic healing spell on herself and then "necromancer's healing" on Serana. Blessed relief! Then, the two women walked on through the opened gateway. They came into a spacious hall, not as huge as the place where Serana had been hidden, but big enough. There was a railing of sorts and steps or ranks descended towards a burning firepit that was covered with a grid.

"Isss that an auditorium?" Miss Scale asked bewilderedly.

"Hardly." Serana scoffed. "Unless professor Draugr is giving a lecture on how to roast helpless sacrifices…and roast them…and roast them some more."

And sure enough the place contained some of the tougher draugr: a whole bunch of restless draugr and draugr wights. And on the throne overlooking the whole arena sat the meanest of them all: a higher draugr wight.

"Ok, we need a strategy." Serana whispered. "I'll stick to the ice-spike-spell while you deck them with crossbow bolts. Is that all right with you?"

"Ssseemss like a good enough plan." Miss Scale whispered back. She slid an exploding fire bolt in the furrow of her crossbow and carefully aimed for the higher draugr wight. And then, she pulled the trigger. The string went *clang*; the bolt hit the target and exploded and the higher draugr wight uttered a furious growl. It stumbled around the arena on naked feet and the other draugr went on alert as well. They cursed and grumbled in the ancient language of Atmora. Probably something along the lines of: "Show yourself intruder!" But the two women didn't do them that favour.

They slunk back into the shadows and continued shooting crossbow bolts and ice spikes. It would have been a merry round of playing at the shooter's booth in a theme park. And some of the draugr wights dropped really dead without ever noticing the source of all their troubles. But the big badass draugr wight somehow stumbled near enough to spot them. He was very scorched by now, sticking full of bolts and _very_ disgruntled. He opened his withered mouth and yelled: "ZUM HAL VINK". A white shockwave left his mouth. Said shockwave hit Miss Scale and her crossbow went flying.

"Jipesss, what the heck wasss that?!" she called out in bewilderment.

"Be quick and charge your hands up with a long-range fire spell, if you know any. I'll explain later." Serana answered.

So Miss Scale charged "fire flash" on both her hands and kept tossing fire on the higher draugr wight until it dropped to the floor. "Phew, that wasss a bit too clossse for comfort. I'll look for my crossbow now. It'sss bound to be sssomewhere.", she announced. She found it somewhere on the stone ranks. And that was far from where the crossbow had been torn from her hands. She picked the crossbow up again. Luckily it wasn't broken. Then she turned to Serana and asked: "What in Oblivion did that draugr do to me?"

"He shouted." Serana said plain and simple.

"Smartasssss! I know full well that he wassssn't exactly dissscreet. But whenever I yell, no weird sssshockwavesss are coming out of my mouth." Miss Scale retorted.

"Well you are not learned in the thu'um." Serana said. Miss Scale gave her a dumb look. "Ok, ok: I'll try to explain." she added hastily. "In days long gone by, during the first era, Skyrim was _swarming_ with dragons…"

"Oh them…" Miss Scale threw in. "I've heard rumoursss."

"Would you let me continue the story?" Serana asked testily. Miss Scale nodded. "Well, those dragons could wield magic with their voices. 'Thu'um' is a word of the ancient dragon language. It means 'voice' in the sense of 'word of command'. "

"Dragonsss could talk?" Miss Scale asked.

"Oh yes; they could even write. Maybe we'll find some inscription in the 'claw-alphabet' down here. I've heard from my fellow Atmorans of the elder days that the dragons taught their native language to a select few high-and-mighty people. The dragons were immortal and claimed to be children of Akatosh, the divine of time. The dragons wanted to be worshipped as well and had their own clerus. Let's have a look around." Serana finished her history lecture.

And sure enough they found and inscription, but a very crude one. It looked, as if the dragon script only consisted of two signs: a point and a hooked scratch in various combinations.

"Looksss like crow feet and chicken ssscratch to me." Miss Scale mocked.

Serana chuckled to herself. "Well it's kind of hard to hold a fancy quill with door-sized claws." she defended the dragons. "Anyhow, that shout this higher draugr wight used on you… I think the literal translation is weapon, hand, defeat. It's meant to disarm people and it did a good job too."

"Yousssa be a real charmer, you know?" Miss Scale groused.

"Hey, I've been locked up in a _cave_ for several millennia with nothing but my nightmares for company. That's bound to make everyone moody. So let's find the exit to this dratted maze. I can't wait to see the light of day again, although I'm not one for sunshine." Serana defended herself.

And sure enough, there was a small corridor leading out of the hall. Miss Scale stopped one more time to dig around for loot in a huge treasure chest. "Cheap weaponsss, a ssstamina potion, coinsss, and kriffing jewellery." Miss Scale muttered under her breath. "I'll jussst take the coinsss. My scholar's circlet isss waaysss better than thisss junk." "Ahem…" Serana coughed. "Good graciousss, yess I'm coming." Miss Scale sighed.

Down the corridor, there was another lever hoisting another drawgate up. And this time no nasty surprises came – thank the divines! Serana and Miss Scale stepped outside into blaring sunshine. Serana hissed and hastily pulled up her hood. Her companion took in an exaggerated breath of fresh air. Behind them lay the falsely unassuming cave mouth. And before them lay the great wide open of Skyrim! They stood on a mountain's shoulder. Down the slope, there were woods and a swamp shrouded in mist.

"Ok, let'sss sssee what the bessst route will be. You ssseem absssolutely desssperate to meet your family again. Ssso we'll go ssstraight off-road through the ssswampsss of Hjaalmarsssh. That leadsss usss to the Karthfjord and the port of Sssolitude. We can make a brief ssstop there." Miss Scale said.

"Hmm…The Hjaalmarsh swamps?" Serana mused. "I don't know. That area was teeming with frostbite spiders and vampires even back in _my_ adventuring days. But at least we'll cover ground and eat miles. So let's go."

So the two women went downhill into the infamous Hjaalmarsh swamps. They were bothered by mudcrabs, frostbite spiders and even the odd chaurus reaper. How in Hermaeus Mora's name did one of _those_ critters turn up above ground? But there were also dartwings to catch, deathknell flowers to pluck and swamp mushroom pods to harvest. At nightfall, after hours of hiking, they came to a lonely hut in the middle of nowhere. Miss Scale grabbed the doorknob and gave the door a good shake. But alas, it was locked. "Hello? Isss sssomeone at home?" she asked.

"Oh _do_ be quiet." Serana admonished her. "Can't you see the blood smeared on the wall boards? The people who live here are probably none too friendly. Well I can also smell the blood. Which reminds me that I'm famished. I'll be off to lure some unlucky bloke into the dark and suck him dry." After that announcement, Serana vanished. Miss Scale shuddered and made herself comfortable in an old rowboat near the cabin (as much as a girl can make herself comfortable in a leaky pot). She arranged a burlap sack filled with something or other and caught an eyeful of sleep. A shake on the shoulder woke her up again.

"Ssserana, isss that you?" Miss Scale asked groggily.

"Yes you happy-go-lucky goof, it's me. What were you thinking, going to sleep without a decent campfire in these parts?" Serana scolded her. "I've had my fill of blood and I'll spare you the details, thank you very much. Time to get moving again."

"Awww, it'sss not even dawn!" Miss Scale complained.

"Have you forgotten the first thing about vampires and sunlight?" Serana reminded her. So Miss Scale heaved herself out of the rowboat and followed Serana in north-western direction. A few ponds and moats later, the two women heard the sounds of sea gulls and harbour bells. At the other side of the fjord, the Solitude docks were situated along with the famous East-Empire-Company warehouse. "Yousssa be any good ssswimming?" Miss Scale asked. "I ssseee neither bridge nor ferry."

"Yes, I know how to swim. My mother taught me soon enough, not just necromancy and gardening but important stuff as well." Serana replied. So they swam their length across the Karthfjord. Ugh, that water was almost freezing! Furthermore, they noticed slaughterfish nibbling at their boots and other delicate parts – like Serana's rear end.

"You are hereby charged with molestation of a daughter of Coldharbour! As soon as I get out of this water, the sentence will be executed – along with this lusty fish." Serana snarled. And so she did. The two women used a ladder at the pier to climb out of the water and Serana used her ice-spike spell to kill the slaughterfish. Then they turned around to enjoy the view bathed in early morning light. There was the huge gate of the East-Empire-Company's warehouse, the customs office of Vittoria Vici and even moored ships. But the most impressive sights of all was the huuuge natural arch of the Kilkreath Mountains, on which the whole of Solitude was built. Awesome!

Miss Scale led Serana up the wooden stairs to the road. They passed Katla's farm and turned right and uphill to the city gate. Miss Scale started a conversation again. "You're lucky that you didn't come to Ssssolitude earlier. There wasss thisss beheading of a certain Roggvir, nasssty busssinesss! I've got another piece of sssordid gossssip. Watch out for the court wizzzard Sssybilla Ssstentor. Ssshe might be a fellow vampire. Do you want to talk to her?"

"I'd rather not show myself to her. Vampires don't deal much with other vampires outside of the clan. Always wise to be careful, and I'm not familiar with the name Stentor. I don't know her from _my_ times. Maybe an outcast? The position of court wizard is pretty strange for a vampire." Serana replied. But they hushed their weird small talk just in time and entered Solitude through the main gate. The streets of the market district were still festooned with pennants from the "King Olaf's burning" celebration. Miss Scale led Serana to Sayma's "Charming stuff" store where she bought a lot of health and magicka potions. And no, the store _wasn't_ stocked in crossbow bolts.

Meanwhile Serana was gloated at by the bratty son of Sayma. "I bet my daddy could beat you to a pulp.", the boy challenged. Serana didn't bother to reply. She just grimaced and made sure that her fangs were _quite_ visible. The brat gulped and then bolted for the living area terrified. "Kayd? Kayd! What's gotten into that boy?" Sayma called in alarm.

"Err…We ssshould leave, my dear friend." Miss Scale said with a toothy smile. Outside, she turned to Serana and hissed: "Pray don't do thisss ever again." Then they left Solitude. Serana now remembered the last part of the route.

"We have to reach the seashore somehow. Either, we walk towards the Solitude lighthouse and go round the cape or we follow the road to Dragonbridge, _then_ turn right at Meridia's shrine and proceed through the costal range down to the sea. Volkihar Island sits in misty, cold waters almost at the border to High Rock." The girls decided on the slightly shorter alternative via Meridia's shrine.

They walked until nightfall and then set up camp. There was another camp nearby, a Stormcloak camp. But it would have been a bad idea to search for accommodations there. Well a female Argonian and her vampire sidekick (or vice versa) showing up among these racist rebels; it would have caused quite the scene. Come the next day, they passed Meridia's shrine, walked by Wolfskull Cave and found another way down the costal range at Deepfall Cave. Finally they were on sea level. They had been molested by ice wolfs, ice wraiths and horker seals so far. But all these hadn't been much of a threat.

They turned west until they came to the eerie, ransacked Northwatch Keep. Here, Serana turned to Miss Scale and said: "We're almost there. Over there, you can see Icewater Jetty. There should be a rowboat moored. Now here's the moment where you sit in the boat and row me towards the island. Come on!" And she made shooing gestures.

"Why alwayssss me?" Miss Scale grumbled. But she complied nevertheless. After a busy while of rowing, the boat landed on Volkihar Island. It was a barren piece of land, shrouded in eternal fog. Only sea gulls seemed to visit the place of their own free will. And of course, Miss Scale gawked at the huge, foreboding eyesore of a castle. There was a bridge leading up to the castle. The bridge didn't make any sense as there was no moat. But oh well… This purposeless bridge was lined with rows of inactive gargoyles. Furthermore, there was a lonesome tower at the beach.

Serana turned to Miss Scale and released her welcome-speech. "Here we are: Castle Volkihar. Home sweet castle, happiness abound. Thank you for accompanying me here. I'd likely had been lost without your guidance. Now, before we head in there, let me make a few things clear. First: Leave the talking to _me._ My father is… Well he's my father and lord of this castle. But he's not the nicest of persons or even sane. Second: You might see some really disgusting things in there. Be warned and try to ignore them. Your Dawnguard buddies would surely want to kill everyone in this place. I hope for both our sakes that _you_ can show a little more restraint. Any further questions?"

"Yesss, how does coming home after all these years feel like? And did you once tell me that your family owned a cassstle?" Miss Scale asked.

"Aaah about not telling you sooner… I didn't want you to see me as a pampered princess sitting in her lady's room. That's not me, the kind of girl who hatches silly dreams in her airy head. Father made sure of that when he forced us all to undergo the ritual. And about how I feel: I really can't tell. I should probably feel ecstatic but I'm rather indifferent, even a tiny bit apprehensive." Serana confessed.

"Why ssshould you feel unssssure coming home for the firssst time after millennia?" Miss Scale asked with some compassion.

"Oh it's just that our family life is a lost case since ages untold. My father was once a loving and good-natured man, but loathed to accept his own mortality. That drove him to the worship of Molag Bal which turned us all into vampires. For some time, we revelled in our newly gifted powers. But then, father stumbled over this darn prophecy. It said that there would come a time when vampires didn't need to fear the sun any longer, that they could somehow poison the sun and call eternal darkness down on Nirn. Some hodgepodge about "the blood of the first daughter blinding the eye of the dragon". Imagine it: a golden age for vampires! Father became _obsessed_ with solving that riddle. And he wanted to make these words come true. But my mother, Valerica, totally disagreed with him. She yelled at him that such an atrocity would draw way too much attention and hostility to vampires. We should be doing what we've been doing since ages untold: keep a low profile. Since that day, Castle Volkihar knew no more peace. It was a very hard time for me. One day we're still a happy family. The next day I can't recognize us anymore. After so many shouting matches and resentments, my parents split up. Mother spirited me away in the dead of night, took me to Dimhollow Crypt and locked me up in that monolith along with the elder scroll. Then you found me after some millennia." Serana was a bit out of breath after that story.

"That'ssss… Oh you poor thing! What a missserable life. I'll honour your trussst. Can you cope with the return?" Miss Scale asked.

"Yes, I'll manage somehow. Thank you for listening. It felt so good to finally get the whole ordeal off my chest." Serana replied.

"But pleassse do me a favour in return. Ssshould you find a Nord in there, who goesss by the name of Thorald Grey-Mane, try to protect him, ssshield him from harm. Maybe you could even help him to essscape? Hisss family in Whiterun isss desssperate to have him back." Miss Scale begged.

"That's gonna be hard. I may be a lord's daughter but I can't do as I please – as much as I'd like that. But I'll try." Serana sighed.

Then, they walked up to the gate. The guard was wary at first, even puffing himself up and uttering complaints. But soon he recognized Serana and hoisted the gate up. They could pass through the castle's front gate. In the entrance hall, they were bothered by a certain Altmer vampire. "How dare you trespass!" But soon, he recognized Serana and became a lot more polite, even grovelling. "Serana?! It can't be. But it's really you, after all this time." It was Vingalmo, Lord Harkon's right claw. He led Serana and Miss Scale to the banisters of the great hall and called out in his booming, full voice: "Hark, hark Serana has returned at last – our good lord's daughter. Let's welcome her back."

Serana and Miss Scale walked down the stairs into Castle Volkihar's banquet hall, where another grisly "feast" was held. Lord Volkihar rose from his throne and said: "Serana! My long lost daughter has returned at last. I take it you've got the elder scroll?"

Serana put a scowl on her face. Then she yelled: "I don't believe it! I walk through this door for the first time after years untold… And the first thing, you ask about, is that elder scroll?! No 'Hello daughter, how have you been?'? Oh just take the fucking thing then!" And Serana tossed the elder scroll through the hall with all her considerable might. It flew through the air but Lord Harkon unflinchingly caught it with super reflexes. Some vampires of his housefolk hissed either in surprise or in disapproval of such a blatant display of bad temper.

But Lord Harkon remained unfazed and said airily: " _Of course_ I am glad that you made a happy return. Need I say it aloud? Aaah if only your traitor of a mother were here! I'd let you celebrate your reunion and then claw her throat out. Well lead your guest to me."

Miss Scale soon stood directly in front of the terrible might of Lord Harkon Volkihar. The ancient vampire addressed her: "Thank you for bringing my daughter back to me unharmed. Surely you've found out _what_ we are by now?"

"Errr… Yousssa be jussst sssome backwater tribe of reclusssive cannibalsss?" Miss Scale tried at humour. Serana gasped and then face-palmed.

"Cut it with the bad jokes! We aren't some 'cannibals'. That's the domain of Lady Namira but that's beside the point. No, we are the Volkihar vampires, one of the most ancient and most powerful clans in all of Skyrim. I am Lord Harkon Volkihar, owner and master of this castle. You've done me a great service and I can only think of one reward equal to the worth of my daughter and an elder scroll." Here, he made a self-important pause. "My blood!" the ancient vampire droned on.

"Begging you pardon?" Miss Scale asked.

"Yes, my blood contains all the might and sinister glory of a vampire lord. Take it and join our ranks. You'll be the lion among the sheep, you'll sow dread in the hearts of all and you'll never need to fear death again." Lord Harkon pompously clarified.

Serana shook her head vigoriously. Miss Scale caught her gaze and said: "I don't know… What if the procedure issss irrevocable?"

"I'd certainly hope so! But maybe, you still need convincing? Here, let me show you _this._ " Lord Harkon said. And then he morphed into his vampire lord form. He grew considerably in height and bulk. His skin became grey. Naked leathery wings sprouted from his back. His hands turned into claws and his head became gargoyle-ish with long, curvy horns and wicked fangs in his mouth. The transformation was completed with a splatter of blood and a roar. The ugly thing bellowed: "Behold the power I wield! Behold the power of a god!"

Miss Scale "eeped", recoiled and shuddered. Then she said: "No thank you but no, I'll passss. I'll decline your offer and that'sss final. Ssso we walk ssseperate waysss – hopefully."

"Yes and it's a shame in my opinion. You won't be welcome in my presence again. Leave with the gift of your life. If you ever return, you'll be seen as nothing but prey." Lord Harkon made his final verdict. And with his right claw he worked some spell on Miss Scale. She felt suddenly dizzy and fainted soon after. When she came to again, she lay on the beach near the jetty. Miss Scale shook the cobwebs from her brain, picked herself up and got into the boat. Then she rowed back to the main land.

* * *

Author's notes: Of course, in the game Serana doesn't loose her calm and toss the elder scroll at her awful daddy. But [mischievous grin] it would be such a cool reaction to the cold greeting she received! The wait for this chapter was way too long. I'll confess as much. But it _is_ very long and bouts of depression because of maddening world politics got in the way of creativity.


	7. A Nord on the run and a renegade vampire

Author's notes: Hi folks! Here's chapter # 7 for my story "The horror of Northwatch Keep". Buuut I get the distinct impression that I'm starting to bore you. Where the f*** are the reviews? This chapter will once more be dedicated to Thorald Grey-Mane and newly spawned vampire Anitul Sirmarion. Please read and _review._

Disclaimer: Apart from my player character, Miss Scale, and some OCs I made up, I own nothing. TES V: Skyrim is intellectual property of Bethesda Software. And I don't do this for money. Heh, if I did, I'd have thrown the shotgun to the grain fields looong ago, as we say in Germany! Anyhow: on with the story.

* * *

Chapter 7: A Nord on the run and a renegade vampire

Cold, he was feeling awfully cold. That was Anitul Sirmarion's first impression when he came to again. He opened his eyes and sat up. He found himself in a room stuffed full with coffins. "Huh? Why in Auri-El's name am I _here_? My last conscious moments were in the great hall. After that, my memories are hazy at best.", he thought. His senses were in super condition. He could hear the faint clicking and pattering of dog paws and soft growls though he couldn't _see_ the animal. No: animals, he corrected himself. There were two sets of pitter-patter. His nose was also assaulted by a multitude of smells he didn't even _know_ existed up until now. And the last indication was when he poked his tongue on fangs. Fangs?! "Oh please don't let this be real!" Anitul internally begged. His head shot around and he spotted the source of all his recent misery: Vingalmo the vampire Altmer, right claw of Lord Harkon Volkihar.

"You, _**you**_ …!" Anitul sputtered then choked on his rage.

"Yes me." Vingalmo mockingly replied. "I had the audacity to turn you into a vampire. Best thing that will ever happen to you. Maybe you don't see it like that yet. But I went out of my way, set Mundus and Coldharbour in motion, to grant you Molag Bal's blessing. You know, it's so lonely at the top of the pack. Well when you're stuck with an oaf like Orthjolf, eternity can be pretty…taxing and hard."

"I'm going to throttle you!" Anitul shouted. And he lunged himself at Vingalmo with every intention to do so. The latter was far from thrilled or amused. He countered with the whole ungodly strength and prowess of an ancient vampire – dirty tricks included. Finally, he threw Anitul to the ground and beat him within an inch of his un-life. "You, my boy [*thud* *thud*] need to learn some manners [*squish*]. And I'm more than happy [*crack*] to break you in." Vingalmo ground out during the "workout". He just left Anitul lying and wallowing in his misery when he sensed it was enough. He said: "When your body is done regenerating, be so kind as to visit Garan Marethi. Just tell him that 'it's time'." Thus said, Vingalmo left the room to Molag Bal-knows-where.

x x x

Thorald Grey-Mane was _also_ feeling cold. Not that he had been turned into a vampire; he was just submerged in a disgusting liquid. He refused to call said liquid "water". There was way too much poop and other waste in it for his tastes. But he had escaped from Rargal Slave-Master's "accommodations" and that was worth a lot. So he caught a breath and dove. As he was in an unfamiliar sewer, he kept close to whatever ceiling the canal had. He swam and swam some more. Then, his head broke through the surface of open water and he took in a gasping breath. After some seconds, he was done wheezing and took a look around. Just his blasted luck! This canal wasn't out in the great, wide open. He was in some kind of crypt surrounded by coffins, heaps of bones and patrolling death hounds. Thorald hated the guts of _those_ critters! Briefly, Thorald wondered what had become of a certain Anitul Sirmarion. Had the elf guy managed to escape? But those musings were no good. He had to wait for rumours. Not that he'd hear any while sloshing in that disgusting errr…brine any longer than necessary. So he grabbed the rim of stone masonry and hoisted his bulk out of the canal. Maybe it was best keeping a low profile? So, Thorald didn't draw himself to full height but explored the crypt sneaking and creeping.

First, he pilfered through some coffins. But he didn't find anything useful, just bones and scraps of bloodied cloth. The chest was more worthwhile. He now had some Septim coins on him and a halfway decent iron mace as well. Wait! Was he hearing sniffing? Oh yes, he did. Thorald internally cursed his bad luck and turned around oh-so-slowly. Suspicious yellow eyes were fixed on him, the eyes of a death hound. And here it was: *gggrrrr* snarling at him. Thorald could practically _see_ the hackles rising. This was going to get ugly. The pit dog with the icy breath lunged itself at Thorald Grey-Mane, who nimbly dodged out of the way – and hit his head on a banister. Owie! Let me tell you: seeing stars while having to fight a supernatural pit dog is no fun. The death hound tried to go for his throat but Thorald somehow managed to wedge his mace-handle in the maw. So the dog couldn't bite any more. And then, Thorald shook his head clear and picked himself up from the ground.

The stubborn death hound held onto the handle and was hoisted up, hind legs suddenly dangling in empty air. A _smart_ dog would have let go by now. But death hounds are a particularly dumb breed. So it hung in mid-air much to Thorald's annoyance. He decided to play dog-tossing-merry-go-round. Whheeee…He spun around till the death hound lost to the fleeing force and sailed away into the murky depths of the Volkihar basement. Thorald heard a thud and a yelp at a good distance. He waited some moments but the death hound wasn't coming back.

x x x

Anitul Sirmarion hurt all over, a pain like Oblivion. His new vampire body had several broken ribs to mend, a ruptured kidney and a smashed nose. Had he still been mortal, he would have been done for. As he waited for his injuries to heal, he cursed his recklessness in many colourful elven choice words. He should have known that Vingalmo was his better in terms of martial arts. Well a lesson learned the hard way is still a lesson learned. He gingerly stood up when he felt well enough. After all, he still had a task to do. But gods, he was _thirsty!_ There stood this tantalizing bottle on the imposing banquet table. The bottle was covered in metal ornaments and filled with a red liquid. Aaah, sweet delicious blood! Anitul was overcome with a craving need. He felt ashamed but couldn't help himself. So he grabbed the bottle, uncorked it and emptied the whole contents in one swig. That being done, he had to restrain the urge to burp. [Zeschi's notes: A burping vampire in the game, now that would be a sight for gods and men!] Now he felt so much better.

Anitul resumed his search for this Garan Marethi guy. He finally found the dunmer vampire on the gallery. Garan Marethi was a former member and councillor of house Dres. In his time as a mortal, he'd weathered enough plots and intrigues to last him _several_ lifetimes. And consequently as a vampire, he'd turned his back on politics altogether – or so he claimed. Anitul coughed to get the other vampire's attention.

"Ah the young-blood! What do you need?" serjo Marethi asked.

"Vingalmo sent me on an errand. I was to tell you that 'It's time.' Whatever that means; you should know best." Anitul replied.

"*Harumph* well follow me. If lord Harkon and Vingalmo both think, that you're up to the task – who am I to argue?" the dunmer said.

"So Harkon cooked this 'task' up? I don't know if I should feel honoured or scared." Anitul flippantly said.

" _Lord_ Harkon to you, young-blood. You forget your place. Well here we are." The chastising by serjo Marethi was duly noted. During their conversation, both men had been walking to a side room of the great hall. It was filled with cupboards, chests other furniture and knick-knacks. But the most extraordinary piece of furniture was a stone basin in the centre of the room. In that stone basin stood the ugliest goblet Anitul had ever seen. It was made of some very dark grey metal, almost black. It was bulky. But the ornaments were the worst thing. It was studded with spikes, rows and rows and rows of spikes. So, the trinket had a very unpleasant air about it.

Anitul opened his mouth to ask the obvious question but Garan Marethi beat him to it. "That's the bloodstone chalice. It's an ancient heirloom of the Volkihar clan. Lord Harkon dug through some tomes and read very interesting things about it. In a place called Redwater Grotto, there's a cursed spring. Its water looks a lot like blood and also tastes like it. But alas, it's _not_ blood. The substance is said to make healthy mortals sick but before that, they become addicted. _Your_ task is to go to Redwater Grotto, fill the bloodstone chalice with that water… And, oh my, I almost forgot!" Here, a mean smirk appeared on Marethi's face. "You must also add the blood of an ancient vampire. Good luck with that! Then, you bring the filled chalice back to me. Err… Redwater Grotto is a skooma den run by vampires. They are…less respected members of our society. Wether you kill them or not, is your choice. Have fun." Marethi's smirk grew even larger.

Anitul fought the urge to deck the other vampire then and there. He just gritted out between clenched teeth: "I still need directions. I've never heard of this 'Redwater Grotto'."

"Oh the place is situated in the Autumn Forest of the Rift. I'll make a cross on your new map." serjo Marethi smugly said.

"Oh that's just peachy!" Anitul exclaimed in exasperation. "So I have to go traipsing about the length and width of Skyrim to the opposite corner. Argh, you know how to cheer a man up." He moodily grabbed the bloodstone chalice and left to look for a backpack.

x x x

Meanwhile Thorald Grey-Mane was searching for an exit in the Volkihar crypt. But so far, he'd only found barrels full of ancient mouldy things that had, in the elder days, been vegetables. And he'd stumbled over a skeever. But his mace had made short work of the pest. He had also found a door to the outside world but it was locked. The draft of cold air came in but Thorald couldn't get out for the life of him. He hadn't got any lock-picks. So he slunk back into the crypt and stopped at the skeever carcass. It sickened him to the core but this was meat. Gods knew how long he'd be locked in the crypt or if there was another way out. So he gutted the dead pest. "Shor's bones! This is about the most disgusting thing I've ever done." he grumbled to himself.

He threw the handful of bowels in the canal. After all, the water was already sullied beyond repair. Then, he cleaned his hands as best as he could. He took the dead skeever by the tail and sneaked on. There was a corridor to the left but a pulled-up bridge blocked Thorald's progress. Beyond the bridge, he could hear creaking. Creaking? That made him think of old bones. "Skeletons! My day keeps getting better and better." he ranted. Now for lowering that bridge, there had to be a lever somewhere. He sneaked and crept on and paused when he heard the patter of paws and soft growls. There were more death hounds. Fantastic!

The first one already charged him. Its icy maw tried to dig into Thorald's thigh. And indeed he got nipped a bit. But a mighty blow with the mace on the death hound's head settled the matter. The critter made a yowl and dazedly shook its head. Thorald butted the same spot again with his mace. The eyes of the death hound became misty and it dropped down dead. So here was more meat, if ever the need should arise. Or there was a fancy collar to melt down and reforge later. But Thorald didn't know, if there was a smithy in these warrens – probably not. He crept on and once more stopped to listen. He heard rhythmic clicking and bubbling. That sounded almost like back home in Whiterun, in Arcadia's Copper Cauldron. So there was an alchemy lab down here? And someone to operate it. But Thorald had a nagging feeling that said person would be a vampire. Now it was official: he needed a long-range weapon, and quickly so!

He remembered that he'd seen straps and stripes of leather somewhere on a coffin. That would be perfect for a slingshot. As for the ammo… Well there was enough rubble lying around everywhere. Thorald set to work and made a halfway decent slingshot. Now that the practical part was due, he felt somewhat nervous. He hadn't done this since he'd been a little rascal. And back in his childhood days, he'd only aimed for people's asses, mostly the rear end of a certain Olfrid Battle-Born. He crept around the corner and watched the scene. Yes, there was a vampire woman brewing some swill or other at her alchemy table. He selected one of the larger chunks of debris, placed it in the slingshot, circled the thing above his head and sent the stone flying. It hit the vampire woman square in the back of her head. She dropped down unconscious and spilt her potion on the floor. Little wisps of smoke rose as the solid stonework was corroded. The death hound nearby moved as if to charge Thorald but ultimately thought better of it. It was limping, so that was the beast he'd tossed around earlier.

Thorald drew his dagger and advanced on the oblivious vampire. No sooner than that, the death hound started to growl. Thorald heaved a sigh. "Sorry pal but I _have_ to do it. If she ever wakes up again, your mistress won't be a happy vampire." Suddenly he felt self-conscious justifying himself in front of a death hound of all things! So he hurried to slit the vampire's throat and was very careful, _not_ to touch the blood gushing out. The death hound whined and whimpered pathetically. Thorald rose and drummed his fingers on the alchemy table. "Fine, you can tag along buddy. Happy now? At least I'll have someone to talk to, so I won't get nuts. But I'll have to find a new name for you. Your mistress can no longer tell me your previous name." Thorald said. He pondered for some moments. "What about Toothy-Pegs? No? Too silly?" he asked. The death hound just shot him an "Oh really?"-look. It would have face-palmed if such a motion were possible for a canine. "Okay, okay: I get the message!" Thorald said defensively. "Then, it's Maul. I heard rumours that there's a thug in Rifton, going by that moniker. So you'll be Maul the dog." The newly christened mutt would have wagged its tail if it had had one.

Thorald pilfered the body of the vampire. The leather armour was definitely useful, albeit of the wrong cut. He shuddered as he'd feel like a cross-dresser in the days to come. The vampire woman had a few other possessions like potion ingredients and an enchanted ring and likewise dagger. There also was a wrinkled, ratty page from her diary. So, she'd been a feral outcast, trying to usurp power with a pack of brain-washed death hounds? Thorald was suddenly glad that he'd killed the bitch. He changed into the leather armour and tucked into the pockets whatever he deemed useful. He also found furniture but it only contained junk like a blood-smeared tin jug and such. And now, he could pull the lever to lower the bridge.

Lastly, he called: "Maul, come to heel. That's a good boy! Now we'll leave this place behind." On they went, over the bridge, killing skeletons and other death hounds. They had to be careful, as there were pitfalls with spikes at the bottom and someone had made liberal use of active bear traps. After Thorald had blundered into one, he swore he'd sick Maul on whichever crank was responsible for the lot. He bent the bear trap open and pulled his poor mangled leg out again. Owie! That needed immediate medical attention. He emptied a bottle of minor health potion that he'd found at the feral vampire's hideout. Man and dog continued their search for an exit. They needed to lower the second part of the bridge. But where the heck was the lever? It was in a dead end of the crypt but Thorald and Maul had to overcome several obstacles to reach it. One was a disgustingly sturdy cobweb. And as to the other… _That_ was a kriffing carriage-sized frostbite spider. Oh joy! Thorald had to toss a lot of pebbles and Maul bit down hard on the vermin's abdomen. Green ichor sprayed from the wounds and the spider hissed and squealed. It tried to go for Thorald but it got stuck in the narrow exit of the vault. Lucky for Thorald, so he continued tossing pebbles as hard as he could. After what felt like an eternity, the huge spider plopped down on the ground and stirred no more.

Thorald carefully moved around the bulky carcass and pulled the lever. Meanwhile Maul was going sick because of the spider's gore. "Hey buddy, are you gonna be okay?" Thorald asked worriedly. The mutt retched one last time and followed its new master. They crossed this last part of the bridge and managed to open an unlocked door. Thorald stepped out and gasped in wonder. Blessed sunlight! It had been way too long, since he'd last seen the sky. They seemed to be in a spacious courtyard. Thorald and Maul went to explore it. Once upon a time, this place must have been a beautiful garden. But centuries of neglect and a case of wilful vandalism had rendered the whole patch of greenery almost dreary. Someone with awesome strength had upturned some of the plant-pots and damaged the… Huh, whatever strange array that was in the centre of the yard. Maul lifted his leg on an ancient gnarled juniper tree. Thorald tried the two other doors near one terrace. But both lead to dead ends: crumbling, derelict wings of Castle Volkihar that only housed some skeletons and a few gems. What fucking good was an emerald when Thorald had to worry about starving? He would have to patiently wait for seagulls landing in the yard. With such dreary thoughts, Thorald collected all the deadwood he could find to build a ranger's shelter big enough for him and Maul and – as an addition – a campfire to roast the skeever.

x x x

Anitul Sirmarion had packed his backpack to the rim. It now held this thrice damned bloodstone chalice, his very own map of Skyrim, a bottle of this distilled-blood-potion and other necessities. He grumbled a reluctant "Good-bye" to Vingalmo and walked out of the main gate. GAH! Anitul had never known that sunshine could be so harmful. First, he shied away, blinded by the glaring light. Slowly, his mutated eyes got used to the brightness. He kept walking even if his skin felt like peeling off after a very nasty sunburn. His secret decision stood firm. He had _absolutely no_ intentions to follow through with Lord Harkon's wild-goose-chase. He would hold his ear to the cobblestones. And as soon as he heard even rumours about a cure, he'd gladly jump to the opportunity. He passed Northwatch Keep and a shiver travelled down his spine. The memories were really haunting, all the blood, death and despair and the helplessness. The mangled body of his cousin… He tore himself back to the present and walked over to lower Deepdrop Cave. He decided to take a break there. Daylight was really getting to him. He thought, he'd seen tiny wisps of smoke rising like steam from his skin. He had to rid the interior of three ice wolves, but after that it was almost cozy. That was the single thing he'd miss about being a vampire: his newfound indifference to the icy conditions of Skyrim.

He waited for dusk to come and then, he continued on his way. He'd make a short stop at the embassy to get rid of the bloodstone chalice for good. Sure it was an immense risk. But Anitul still needed to make a tiny report. He followed the beach up to Greenshadow Cave, then switched to the road. Up ahead, he spotted a Thalmor patrol dragging some unlucky Nord prisoner to the embassy. Briefly, he was reminded of Thorald Grey-Mane's fate. Should he… Should he try to use his new vampire powers of seduction to trick those Thalmor into releasing their 'prey'? A risky move, but thus he could prove that he could go against his base instincts. So Anitul did his subversive mumbo-jumbo and the Thalmor stopped dead in their tracks. He had them _all_ wrapped around his little finger; he just knew it. "Hey stop!" he called. "There's been an error with the judging of this guy. He seems clean… Well as clean, as an uncivilized Nord can be. I think commander Ondolemar pardoned him. So could you cut his bonds?" The mage leading the Thalmor patrol gave him a flat, dumb look. Then he droned: "By your leave sir." And he cut the Nord prisoner loose! Anitul grabbed the hapless guy by the shoulder and whispered into his ear: "Do me a favour and make a run for it! These grunts will come to their senses soon enough." The Nord stammered a bewildered "thank you" and bolted into the wilderness. And Anitul continued on his way whistling an awkward tune. Being a double-crossing rebel felt so weird!

He reached the gates of the embassy without further antics. With his sensitive vampire eyes he could see who was on guard duty. The older Altmer seemed familiar, like he'd been a member of Northwatch Keep's garrison. Anitul stepped closer to the gate. He had taken attention to donning his old elven armour before he'd left Castle Volkihar. So there shouldn't be any misunderstandings at first sight. The elderly Altmer called: "Halt! Who goes there? Step into the torchlight."

Anitul did him the favour. He presented himself like he'd been taught. "Anitul Sirmarion, common soldier, stationed at Northwatch Keep." he rattled off, short and to the point.

"Northwatch Keep? Oh boy, you must have been through Oblivion and back again! I'm sergeant Shotoras and me too, I made it out barely with my life. It turned out that I had contracted sanguine vampiris but I could get my hands on a cure just in time. Well don't stand there like a scolded schoolboy! Pray raise your head." the old wardog grumbled.

Anitul did so and the sergeant took a hasty step backwards. Golden eyes had turned to piercing, hungry yellow and there was only _one_ explanation for such a state. Anitul gave him a pleading look and said: "Please don't make a fuss sir. I spent the, whatever weeks have passed since the raid on Northwatch Keep, in the jail of a vampire hideout. There's a tiny island in the Sea of Ghosts. The island holds Castle Volkihar, home to an ancient clan of vampires. I… Well, I didn't exactly have a choice in becoming one. They beat me and starved me. There's this Altmer vampire, Vingalmo, the right claw of Lord Harkon Volkihar. He…" Anitul paused in his report to shudder. "He turned me. Then, the vampires sent me on an errand. But I have absolutely no intention to earn their good graces. I'm only looking for a cure."

Sergeant Shotoras sighed and turned to his partner in guard duty. "Boindil, we'll handle this _tactfully._ I hope I made myself clear."

"You did sir." his young companion replied, a sly grin etched on his face.

"Oh _do_ drop your shit-eating grin!" sergeant Shotoras admonished. Then he turned back to Anitul Sirmarion. "However, I do have to write an official report sooner or rather later. I'm abhorred by the things you had to endure. But the staff of the embassy won't be able to help. The main job of the Thalmor is…" Here he was rudely interrupted.

"Harassing the locals, yes I know. That helps a lot." Anitul said sarcastically.

Sergeant Shotoras gave him a queer, piercing look. "Did something happen, that I should know about? Something apart from your 'ailment'?" Anitul closed his lips in a stubborn, firm line. Shotoras shook his head and grumbled. "Oh forget it! For Trinimac's sake, I'm no interrogator. As I was saying, before I was *errr* interrupted, there might be some help at the Blue Palace in Solitude. I heard rumours that their court mage was stuck in the same condition as you. Maybe she knows what to do against it? But you haven't heard that gossip from _me_ , yes? Miss Stentor as a court mage is as proper as they come."

"Thank you so much. You've given me free information, probably against better judgement. Every little bit helps." Anitul replied. "But there's one more thing that I'd like to ask of you." He opened his backpack and took out the most hideous piece of tableware that sergeant Shotoras had ever seen. "Could you persuade First Emissary Elenwen to take this under lock and key? Preferably for forever and a day. It's an ancient heirloom of the Volkihar clan and I'm desperate to get rid of it. Pray don't ask further questions. Just some fantasy about a cursed spring and all…"

Sergeant Shotoras wrinkled his nose, blatant dislike evident on his face. "Yuck, what if it's not the _spring_ that was cursed but the goblet? This trinket has "trouble" written all over it. What if it had got a tracking charm hexed on it? The Volkihar clan would be barging the _embassy's_ doors down next time tomorrow night. Thank you so very much! Did you ever consider that?" Anitul's mortified expression appeased him a bit. He heaved the umpteenth sigh for this night. "No, probably not. Just tuck that goblet away again. I won't even _look_ at it any longer."

Anitul knew when he was beaten, tucked the abomination back into his baggage and both mer said their good-byes. Anitul had to make haste to reach Solitude before dawn.

* * *

Author's notes: So this is the end of chapter 7. I hope you enjoyed it. About Thorald Grey-Mane tinkering on a slingshot… I think, I've read about a mod introducing slingshots to Skyrim. I've seen pictures as well. It's a shame though that I don't remember the modder's name. But I thought to myself: Why not? It's the most basic long-range weapon you can think of. And Thorald is in some dire survival-straits here. And I already have an idea, _how_ poor Anitul will get rid of the Bloodstone Chalice for good. I think you'll like it.


	8. Chapter 8: Two journeys

Author's notes: Hi folks! Let's bring chapter 8 to you. This episode of my story will switch between Anitul Sirmarion, my Thalmor-gone-renegade and Miss Scale on her way back to Dayspring Canyon and the Dawnguard. My special thanks goes to DevilsBountyHunter1 for his ongoing reviews. But other people are also welcome to give a feedback…

Disclaimer: TES V: Skyrim belongs to Bethesda Software and this is a non-profit-fancy of mine. I only made up Miss Scale, and various Altmer OCs. But now, on with the story.

* * *

Chapter 8: Two journeys

It was a bit of a hassle to go back to Solitude all by herself. But Miss Scale was happy that she'd gotten away with her life and soul intact. She still shuddered when she remembered Lord Harkon changing into that grisly _thing._ Not for the life of her, she would have undergone such changes! The beach of the Ghostcoast was riddled with annoying mudcrabs. There also were several landmarks: lower Deepdrop Cave, Widowwatch-Tower inhabited by a witch, Ravenscar Cave and Broken Oar Grotto. But she stayed clear off all of them.

At last, she reached Solitude. Here, she pondered on the best course of action. Should she hire the carriage directly to Rifton? Or should she walk all the way? Then, she thought of little Lucia. Surely, the girl was desperate for a reunion and stories of her adventures. So, scratch Rifton; she would stop by Whiterun first. She went to Jala's market stall to buy some provisions and then to Sayma's "Charming Stuff" store. She still needed to apologize for Serana scaring the kid. It was kind of awkward. "Sssayma, I am ssssorry for the behaviour of my new acquaintance. Ssserana hasss ssspent a lot of time in the wildernesss. Ssshe didn't remember all her mannersss." Miss Scale said.

"Oh that's no problem at all." Sayma said. "I had a long talk with Kayd. Seems like he wasn't _quite_ so undeserving of the scare he got. He offended your companion."

"Thank you ssso much for your underssstanding." Miss Scale replied. She sold a few wolf pelts and the scimitar she had found under the upturned lifeboat. Then, she left town – or rather the city.

x x x

Anitul Sirmarion made his way to the Blue Palace. He tried to cling to the shadows as best as he could. But he was so focused on tip-toeing and scuttling that he bumped into Drevenin. The slightly loony beggar took in the appearance before him: a high elf in the typical moonstone armour of the Dominion. But this guy was rather pale and his eyes were a piercing yellow. The obvious dawned on Drevenin and he ran away screaming "Vampire!". But Drevenin was Solitude's # 1 weirdo so hopefully no one would believe him. A vampire skill like "embrace of the shadows" would be _very_ useful now but Anitul wasn't starved enough. So he settled for hiding in the local hall of the dead. There, he waited for half a candle's length. Then he poked his head out again. With his superior vampire senses he could hear a guard giving poor Drevenin a piece of his mind. "Lunatic" and "swindler" were the mildest expressions.

Anitul grinned to himself. Maybe…just maybe, he'd drink to Drevenin's health when he was cured. The poor sod was touched in the head after all. He walked up to the Blue Palace and entered. The Blue Palace was a sight to behold, exterior and interior likewise. There was a kind of antechamber with benches along the walls and stone planters with snowberry bushes. Then, the actual lobby came. To the left was a modest flight of rooms containing the kitchen and the servants' quarters. To the right was the locked Pelagius wing, named after Pelagius the third of his name, also called Pelagius the mad. The whole wing hadn't been cleaned in ages. And before Anitul, the dual stairs rose beneath a huge iron chandelier and an even bigger cupola of blue glass. So where the heck was the court mage? Likely in one room on the upper floor.

Anitul sneaked up the stairs and went on a search. The throne room was as empty as can be. So he steered left. The first door he entered, he could see a giant's club lying on a sideboard. Whoops, wrong room! A giant's club sure as Oblivion was no ladylike ornament. But he had more luck in the next room. He saw an elderly woman in a hooded mage's robe and very peculiar orange eyes were peeping out from the depths of the hood. And this court mage was not to be trifled with. She had already charged her hands up with a lightning spell and hissed in a hushed but _quite_ unfriendly voice: "Boy you've got some _nerve,_ to come sneaking in here at an ungodly hour! Don't you know common courtesy and visiting hours? Your only saving grace is that you're a fellow vampire. Well explain yourself!"

So much for a happy meet-and-greet… Anitul gulped and finally said: "Please Miss…Madam uh whatever Stentor: I'm not looking for trouble, only for information. I'm Anitul Sirmarion, a Thalmor-turned-vampire. But I'd very much like to return to my former state of being. Do you know how I can be cured? Vampirism isn't my cup of tea."

Sybilla Stentor gave him a long, scrutinizing look. Anitul had to resist the urge to shuffle his feet and duck his head. The court mage moved from her spot on the wall to which she had been leaning. Finally, she stopped in the centre of the room and answered: "Hmm… I don't suppose your "creator" knows of your schemes, or _should_ know for that matter. I've never bothered to look for a real cure. How many summers have you seen?" she suddenly asked.

"Begging you pardon?" Anitul asked. "How is that important for finding a cure?"

Ms Stentor's face had gone solemn and she said: "A violent death would be a cure, but only for the most seasoned and weary vampires. You look too young to be so desperate; so that's out of the question. Another solution is sadly nigh on impossible. The usual cure-disease-potions won't work any longer. The wayshrines of the Eight and their blessings are lost on you. Too much damage has been done by the taint of cursed blood. Maybe… I've heard rumours about a fellow mage in Morthal. His name is Falion and he's a conjurer and a secret authority on undead matters. I think he's still 'normal' and _may_ know how to help you. Whereas I am quite happy the way I am, thank you very much. I can counsel the next umpteen generations of Solitude nobility. I was around to give advice to Torygg's father – divines rest his soul. I worked for Torygg and now I can help his poor widow."

Anitul flashed a grateful smile to her which had a spooky effect due to certain fangs. "Thank you so much for being this forthcoming. I'll search a place to lay low for the coming day. Hmm… Maybe I'll pickpocket the key to the unused Pelagius wing. Bad idea?" he asked as Ms Stentor tried to get in an outraged word edgewise. "Oh well, there's always a basement." He bowed to the old matron, turned around and sneaked from the room.

x x x

Miss Scale decided, to send a letter to Whiterun ahead of her. She dunked the quill into the inkwell and wrote:

 _Dear Lucia,_

 _please don't start fretting and fraying your young nerves. I survived all of my adventures thus far. I should be home again within two or three days. By the way, would you like a brother? I've met an orphan boy, a Breton like you. You're of the same age. Blaise works as stable-boy on Katla's farm but he'd like to have a proper home again. However, I won't decide anything over your head. See you soon._

 _With love_

 _Miss Scale_

Then she folded the sheet, applied some sealing wax and handed it over to the next courier – along with 10 septims. After that, she hired a carriage and drove back to Whiterun. The carriage driver was grating on her nerves when he started singing the thrice blasted tavern song:

"There once was a fighter called Ragnar the Red. /

He moved into Whiterun from ol' Rorikstead. /

He swaggered and bragged and brandished his blade…"

(Zeschi's notes: And so on. I'm sure we all know this tune by heart by now, and thoroughly hate it!) So when Miss Scale had arrived at the Whiterun stables, she asked five septims back. After much haggling and cursing, the driver gave in. Then, she made a beeline for Breezehome. She'd hardly stepped over the threshold when she was tackled by Lucia. "Mommy, mommy you're home!" the ecstatic girl cried. "Please fetch me that brother you wrote about. I need support against Braith and her idea of 'fun'. She's a real street bully. Amren should run a harder hand on her."

"Oh yesss, that'sss true. Ssso true. Well like father, like daughter. Ssshe'ss bred of a fighting ssstock. And it doesssn't help that her mother dearessst is only interesssted in writing booksss." Miss Scale agreed.

"Well, where have you been ma?" Lucia asked.

"Oh through half of Oblivion and back again." Miss Scale said in a mocking tone. Then, she noticed Lucia's spooked expression. "Forgive me, I wasss joking. I've been to thisss eerie place called Dimhollow Crypt. I wasss told to ressscue a Vigilant of Ssstendar, but the poor guy wasss already dead when I arrived there. I butchered myssself through all thessse evil vampiresss, ssspidersss, draugr and whatnot before I _finally_ found a nice one. I mean: a nice vampire. Her name isss Serana and I helped her to get home. I've ssseen the interior of a vampire hideout but let'sss not talk about that. That place ssstill givesss me the creepsss."

"Oh that's…strange to imagine you journeying with a vampire. And you haven't been…well you know?" Lucia asked.

Miss Scale chuckled to that. "No, I'm ssstill myssself and healthy asss a cow. How about we buy flour, applesss and sssuch and bake an apple pie?"

"Hooray!" Lucia cheered. They both left the house and made a tour around the market district. Carlotta Valentia sold them apples and at the Bannered Mare, they could get flour. Anoriath sold them honey. Apart from hunting, he had been plundering beehives now and again. After the shopping tour, they returned home. To get the permission to install an oven in Breezehome had been…bothersome. The original directives for the interior only allowed a small firepit. Miss Scale had been arguing and haggling with Proventus Avenicci – _for days!_ In the end, her bull-headedness had worn him down.

So after about two hours, they could enjoy home-made apple pie.

x x x

Anitul Sirmarion had spent the day in the basement of the Blue Palace and was now on his way to Morthal. He would take the direct route even if it meant swimming the Karthfjord. He didn't feel the cold as he used to any longer. The sky was hued the tender red of dusk. At the shipyard of the East Empire Company, the ferryman asked him if he would need his services. "No thank you." Anitul replied. "I'm not headed for Windhelm or either Dawnstar." Much to the shock and confusion of the ferryman, he jumped from the quay into the river. He swam over the Karthfjord and – thanks to Serana – he wasn't bothered by slaughterfish any longer. Then, he trudged through the swamps. At one of the pools, he unstrapped his backpack and pulled the ugly-as-Oblivion goblet out. Anitul scowled and muttered to himself: "I've carried you long enough. Here you go!" And he threw the bloodstone chalice away. The eyesore fell into the water with a very satisfying *plunk*. It vanished, hopefully to never see the light of day again.

Anitul dusted his hands off and said: "So _that_ was that. Good riddance." Then he hoisted his backpack on his shoulders again and continued on his way. But after years and years, he would hear about the consequences of his folly: wild talk about a particularly fierce breed of slaughterfish with orange-hued eyes in said pond… But that's a story for another day.

Anitul reached Morthal with no worse incidents than mudcrabs and frostbite spiders. He asked directions to Falion's lodgings and sensed that there were _some_ grumblings, misgivings and distrust towards the mage. Anitul rolled his eyes and thought: "Typical backwater Nords! They don't really know how lucky they are." He went to the hut and knocked at the door. After some time, he could hear a male voice grumbling from within and also the voice of a little girl answering. Most peculiar… Then, Falion shuffled to the door, opened it at a gap and barked: "If you want to accuse me of sacrificing children or eating the hearts of the dead, you may as well save your breath! I did no such thing and I don't intend to do so in the future." Wow, that guy was _touchy!_ First, Anitul was baffled and angered by such blatant rudeness. But then, he tried to see the mage's side of the medal. The "good" people of Morthal must have given the poor man a lot of trouble.

"Look, I really don't want to meddle in your private research. That's your choice and yours alone. But you may have noticed already, that I have…kind of a problem. Yes? No? Maybe? I heard rumours that you're an expert for unliving creatures and that you might know how to reverse my 'state of being'." Anitul made his speech.

Falion however frowned though he made no move to open the door further. He grumbled: "Oh yes, I know you and your kind!" Here, Anitul tried to get a word in edgewise but he didn't have a chance. The mage continued: "Where other people only see a 'normal' person, I can sense the vampire. Don't get me wrong: I'm not abhorred or disgusted, just very cautious. I find vampires fascinating and I sometimes toyed with the idea, to become one myself. But I decided against it. It would endanger the wellbeing of my young charge Agni. Thus I'm not willing to let you in yet. Not even Hermaeus Mora could know when you drank your last fill. Well I won't engage with a possibly _starving_ vampire."

Anitul had to restrain the very dominant urge to just barge the door in and throttle some sense into the conjurer. The nerve of that man! He should… Oh no, now he was starting to _think_ like a vampire! Falion must have noticed the change. He made a very uneasy face and said. "You should better leave now. But I've some comfort for you, strange comfort but well… There's an old tomb here around the swamps. It's called Ustengrav, the final rest of Jurgen Windcaller, the…oh never mind. A soldier of the Dominion probably won't bother with the history of Skyrim's most sacred order. Now, where was I? Ah yes, Ustengrav: the barrow is overrun with bandits and lately necromancers. Nirn would be a better place without such scum, if you get my meaning. And you will need this." Here, Falion tossed a crystal to Anitul. The crystal was about as long as the Altmer's hand and had an unhealthy, deep purple colour, almost… "A black soul gem?!" Anitul yelled in bewilderment. "Why would you want me to harvest the soul of a sentient being? I don't even know the soul-trap-spell."

Falion winced at the volume of the tirade. Then, he justified it: "Sadly, this is essential for the healing ritual. _Your_ soul was taken by Molag Bal so we need to replace it. You'd better select the soul of a male elven specimen to forestall…awkward complications. The cross-dressing, identity-crisis-kind of awkward complications. As to learning the soul-trap-spell… Normally, I'd _sell_ you a spell tome. But I'm not bold enough to do business with a frustrated vampire. So consider it a gift." Falion left his spot by the door and rummaged through one of his chests. He returned with a purple book in hands that had the Oblivion-rune imprinted on the cover. "Soul trap" was written on the book-back. "Here you are. It should be easy enough to learn." Falion said and shoved the book into Anitul's hands.

The Altmer vampire looked at him hesitatingly and asked: "And there's no other way to cure me? I don't want to be ungrateful but the whole process already gives me the creeps."

Falion first scowled at him. Then the scowl turned to an amused smirk. "Well lad" he said. "During my apprenticeship, I dug through some _really_ old books. There was indeed a description of an alternative recipe." He noticed Anitul's hopeful expression but smashed said hopes. "You would have to collect a handful of plants, and in large quantities at that: nightshade berries and mandrake roots which don't grow in Skyrim. And other herbs and fungi that I don't remember. Oh that was only the easier components: you had to add the ash of an ancient vampire and the blood sample of an Argonian. Good luck with talking an Argonian into donating some of his life juice. And to brew all this into a vile concoction, you needed the services of a witch with profound alchemical knowledge. Hmm… I wonder why people don't do it like two hundred odd years ago any longer. Progress _does_ seem to have its merits." Falion finished with a good-natured chuckle.

Anitul looked very crestfallen and shamefaced after this narrative. "I guess I'll just go and soul-trap an outlaw then" he mumbled.

"That's a sensible boy!" Falion cheered. So Anitul Sirmarion left Morthal with a mission.

x x x

Back in Whiterun, Miss Scale and Lucia ate the delicious apple pie. Then, they went to bed and slept through the night. The next day, Miss Scale had to bid Lucia farewell again. The little girl shed some tears but there was nothing to be done. Miss Scale went to the Whiterun stables and rented a carriage ride to Rifton. Thankfully, Borlam refrained from singing any bawdy tunes. It was already nightfall when the carriage stopped at the gates of Rifton. So, Miss Scale took a room at the Bee & Barb Inn and went to sleep. Come the next day, she had a big bowl of milk with cereals in it, some crushed others roasted. She'd really come to appreciate this dish for breakfast.

On the way to Dayspring Canyon, she was waylaid by highwaymen. But the illusion spell "chaos" made those cutthroats turn on each other. They all killed one another in their delusional state. Dayspring Canyon itself was pretty calm. She greeted Durak first. He gave her an advice. "If you want to improve your crossbow skills go to a back alley section of Castle Dawnguard. It's a hidden training parcours in what's known as Deaddrop Waterfall Cave. You've got to shoot at straw target disks to continue through the tunnels. But there are some valuables stashed away in there as a reward. Good luck!"

Miss Scale answered: "Why thank you. Maybe I'll go there later. But firssst, I have to talk to Issran. I've got a lot of newsss but none of them are good."

Durak winced and said: "Oh bummers! Well what are you waiting for then?" And he shooed Miss Scale into the castle.

In the castle-turned-fortress, Miss Scale told Isran about the deaths of Tolan and Brother Adalvald. Of course, he wasn't a happy Redguard. When he heard of Serana, he was even less pleased. "You befriended a vampire?! Stendar have mercy on us. Now why did I allow you to join in the first place?"

"You allowed me in becausssse I wanted to help a certain Thorald Grey-Mane. Not that I could do anything concccerning _him._ I never found the guy. But I found Ssserana. I brought her home and sssaw the interior of Cassstle Volkihar. Yesss, ssshe'sss a vampire lord'sss daughter. But ssshe'sss quite nice. And ssshe'ss got that elder ssscroll with the weird prophecy and all." Miss Scale told – all in a joyful chirp.

Isran almost burst a vessel there and then. His face turned even darker and he yelled: "A Volkihar vampire got her filthy bloodsucker claws on an elder scroll and you didn't even _think_ about stealing the thing from her? Instead you had to help the 'damsel in distress'. Argh! You're a walking headache and I hope you know it."

Now Miss Scale herself got riled up because of Isran's ingratitude. She hissed viciously: "Look I couldn't do a damn thing becaussse the elder ssscroll wasss ssstrapped to her back all the time. Pick-pocketing a daughter of Coldharbour needsss a braver woman than me. And when ssshe wasss home, ssshe threw the ssscroll at her awful daddy'sss head. I didn't hang around to retrieve it."

Isran heaved a sigh and grumbled: "Well what's done is done. Sorry about yelling at you. But what do vampires want with an elder scroll?"

Miss Scale told him what she'd heard about bits and pieces of the prophecy. Isran all but wailed in dismay. "Vampires wanting to make the sun wither and die, leading to eternal night? We're in trouble, we're in so much trouble. I need your help, headache or not. Could you find two old friends of mine? We parted ways years ago because… Well we had kind of an 'argument'. And they left in a huff. Sorine Jurard, she's a Breton mage and a mechanic. She's obsessed with Dwemer artefacts and could help us to enhance our crossbows. Last time I heard about her, she hung around somewhere in the Reach. Gunmar might be a bit harder to find. He's a beast of a Nord. Speaking of beasts: he's got a way with animals. He's the only person I know of, who can raise and train a troll cub. Armoured ice trolls are a living weapon in their own right. We could need a whole kennel full of them. But I didn't hear from Gunmar in ages. Could you go looking for him nevertheless?"

Miss Scale heaved a sigh of her own and answered: "Here we go again… Well I can forgive you your rude wordsss. But you'd better dig out sssome really good reward for thissss wild-goossse-chassse. I'll have to asssk for thisss Gunmar in each and every tavern of Ssskyrim!" That being said, she excused herself and went to the mess hall area.

x x x

Anitul Sirmarion leaned against an ancient pillar outside of Ustengrav and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd done it! He'd learned the soul-trap-spell and used it on one of those necromancers. That was _no_ experience he wanted to repeat. How the elderly Dunmer man had gasped when the dark energies coiled around his very core. Or the agonized look on his face when Anitul killed him with his mace. When he looked at the filled black soul gem, Anitul thought he could see a tiny version of the Dunmer banging his fists against the inside of the soul gem and yelling obscenities he could no longer hear. He _so much_ wanted to believe that he was imagining things. And after he 'drank' from another outlaw mage, he felt completely rotten. But no good in bemoaning his sorry vampire self. He walked back to Morthal and booked a room at the inn. Falion had, after all, made it completely clear that Anitul wasn't welcome under _his_ roof. So he had to crawl into a tavern bed and endure the toenail-bending verses of this orcish "bard". If only the guy would stop waxing lyrical!

After nightfall, he walked to Falion's hut and presented the filled black soul gem. Falion nodded pretty unfazed and said: "Well done. Let me take this. I'll see you shortly before dawn at the old runestone circle outside of Morthal. I'll make a cross on your map if you'll allow." Anitul handed him the map and Falion drew an X to a point close by the Morthal saw mill. "There you are" the conjurer said. "It's no exhausting hike, just a stroll around the neighbourhood." Anitul promised to be there and left the hut again.

Falion had been right. It wasn't far. Anitul only had to fight some pesky mudcrabs. Then, he leaned against a pillar of the runestone circle and waited. Around 4 o'clock in the morning, Falion turned up. He asked Anitul to place himself in the centre of the circle. The Altmer did so. And Falion made the hand gestures of a complex spell. Then, he began the ritual chant. When Falion had shut his trap again, Anitul felt very dizzy. The world turned a blinding white light before his eyes. He must have fainted. When he came to again, he stood up and did a check on himself. Anitul felt with his tongue around his mouth: no doggy-style fangs any longer, just his rather modest canines. He rushed to the nearest pond and bent over the water surface. Unbelievable! His eyes were back to their golden colour. He wasn't pale as a bed-sheet any longer. He was back to his old mortal self! And the mudcrabs, dartwings and occasional butterfly had the most absurd sight of their lives: an Altmer running around the pools in wild circles, laughing and whooping loudly. Anitul just couldn't help himself. He even kissed a torch-bug for pure joy. Hopefully, nobody had seen _that._

* * *

Author's notes: Here's a delayed Easter egg for all of you! I took some liberties with the contents again. In the game, the bloodstone chalice doesn't get 'lost' in the Morthal swamps. But here I thought, this would be a cool change. And Falion doesn't send you to Ustengrav or mention the vampirism-curing process from Oblivion. But that quest around Count Hassildor was _so_ ridiculously overdone and complicated beyond belief… I just had to make fun of it here.


	9. Important author's notice!

Warning: This is not a new chapter

Note / farewell (?) to all my dear readers: I…well things are hard for me right now, very hard. I've got serious mental issues as in "one beer short of a sixpack". So, I can't say when or _if at all_ I'll be able to continue writing as a leisure time activity. I just thought, it would be decent to inform folks out there.

But thanks for all the great times I've had in the past on  .net .


	10. The long awaited Ch 9

Author's notes: All right, here we go: chapter 9 of this story. Wherein my ragtag gang of Miss Scale, a certain cured Thalmor, Serana and maybe Thorald Grey-Mane go through more or less difficult trials of their own. This whole story combines (or _should_ combine) elements of the Dawnguard DLC with my Argonian player character and some other OC. But you probably already know that if you followed my story up to now. I'm sorry that the update took so long. But my *err* mental issues had to be cured first.

Disclaimer: I don't own TES V: Skyrim. Bethesda Software does. I only own Miss Scale and the Altmer OC. And thanks to doby1 for putting my story on his favourite list. Reviews would be nice

Chapter 9: A heap of fool's errands

Serana was feeling strange. She'd imagined that she would feel at least slightly happy with being home again after 4 000 odd years. Other elves or vampires would have been giddy with joy. But Serana wasn't "other girls". The short but heated talk with her father had given her the impression that she was just a means to some ungodly end. She didn't want to ponder that _now._

So she went searching for Thorald Grey-Mane as she'd promised to Miss Scale. She entered Rargal Slave-Master's little "kingdom of horrors". There were all sorts of prisoners behind closed cell-doors: humans, Altmer, even an Argonian. Most of them were staring at her numbly. They'd been here for so long, sucked half-dry at irregular intervals, malnourished, enthralled time and time again… These people had just given themselves up. The fresher captives backed away into the farthest corner of their cells. Serana cringed at the sight. There had been times long ago, when this heavenward-screaming abuse had been _normal_ in her eyes. Even vampires were sometimes lazy and didn't want to spend whole nights creeping into the mortals' houses and feeding from the sleeping inhabitants. So they had installed this jail with what they callously called "blood-cattle". But the description of Thorald Grey-Mane fitted to none of these prisoners.

So Serana asked the jailer. She had to force herself very hard. Rargal was…disgusting to put it mildly. He laughed meanly at her question. "Yeah him and his Altmer buddy, I remember them well. Somehow they managed to pick the lock but that didn't make them free men, oh no. The Thalmor warrior was caught on the run by Vingalmo. Vingalmo turned the poor fuck. He's one of clan Volkihar now, out and about on a quest. This Thorald Grey-Mane dove into the sewers in desperation. _You_ of all people should know where these tunnels lead to – a dead end in the crypts. Dead end – oh Molag Bal what a pun!" And Rargal chuckled full of glee. Serana took a few deep breaths to stop herself from clawing that smug smirk off from Rargal's face. Blood of the elders that guy was unbearable! "That's all I needed to know. Bye-bye, a girl has other things to do now." Serana said and left the jail.

So this Thorald Grey-Mane was lost somewhere in the bowels of Castle Volkihar, probably very hungry and very lonely. Serana had to fetch some food which was the easier part. Cajoling father dearest into lending the key to the crypt to her would be _much_ harder. She looked around the great hall but only found raw beef that had already developed a very "ripe" aroma. So this was not recommendable for human consummation. Maybe Ronthil had some fresh food among his stocks? Serana wanted to check this.

She found Ronthil soon enough. He was almost always in Feran Sadri's laboratory. She asked him if he had some food in his stocks: vegetables, salted meat, pastry… Ronthil was clearly puzzled. "What would you need food for?" he asked. Serana decided for a snappish, haughty answer. "Don't concern yourself with the reasons of your betters! Just show me what you have. Well?" It turned out that Ronthil was a hoarder of sweet treats and, not surprisingly, meat. So she bought a horse-loin steak, some sweet-cakes and a honey-nut-stick. Then she went from the laboratory to the great hall again, leaving behind a confused Ronthil who scratched his head. What had gotten into that girl? Well it wasn't any of _his_ business, was it?

Serana was already up the stairs and walked (or rather tip-toed) into her lord father's room. She paused in the doorframe for a moment and turned her head from side to side, listening intently with her heightened vampiric senses. She thought, she heard faint, oh so faint snoring. So her father was in his coffin. All the better! Now where to look for father's keys? _Not_ in the cage. That much was obvious. Serana didn't even want to think about the scenes that had occurred there. Then she mustered the various display cases for weapons, jewellery and… Yuck, a werewolf pelt! What did her father need _that_ for? Serana didn't have a clue. The way the hide looked, it was smelly and flea-ridden. There were also sideboards, chests of drawers, wardrobes, bookcases… So much furniture and so little time. She tentatively opened a wardrobe and was instantly covered in a swarm of moths. Oh dear, that would never have happened in the good old days when mother still cared for the household! Lousy old straw-widower, she thought grimly. She rifled through a mouldy, cloth-like _something_ but there was no key of whatever kind. Then she closed the wardrobe again.

Next, she checked the bookcases but it was only a very narrow selection: a full collection of "The true Barenziah", "Thief of virtue", "Hronmir's song" and at least three copies of "The lusty argonian maid". Serana was more than a little troubled. When had her father become desperate and stooped so low? He probably missed Valerica more than he let on. Her eyes wandered from the bookcase to the desk and there lay the elder scroll in all its glory. Now she was certain: something was seriously wrong with her father. It wasn't like him to be _so_ careless. But what was it again with "gifted horses and their mouths"? She snatched the elder scroll and tucked it away under her cloak. And not a moment too soon. For suddenly, she heard a loud *squeeeaaak* from the niche holding the coffin. Father dearest had woken up.

x x x

Miss Scale had her work cut out for her, oh yes indeed! She scratched her scaly head and pondered her quests: which person to follow first? Miss Scale decided to pursue Gunmar first, Sorine second. "Becaussse…" she said to herself. "If Sssorine isss really sssmitten with the Dwemer, ssshe will ssstay put in the Reach. That hold wasss one of their ssstrongholdsss. Finding Gunmar will be more difficult." She returned to Rifton and inquired for Gunmar at the Bee & Barb. But Talen-Jei hadn't heard a thing about the elusive Nordic beast-trainer. So Miss Scale pattered over to Haelga's Bunkhouse – despite her disgust. She just hoped that the man-crazy wench was in a halfway decent state. The common room on the ground floor was empty save for Svana Far-Shield, who was wiping the tables. Miss Scale felt sorry for the girl. Svana was Haelga's own niece for the Hists' sake! And she was being kept like a servant. Nope scratch that: she _was_ a servant for her last living relative. It was really sad, but right now Miss Scale was too busy to do something about it. So she spoke to the girl: "Excussse me Missss Sssvana, isss the landlady awake and decent? I have sssome questionsss about a certain man, whether he _wasss_ a guessst here or not."

Svana looked at her and gave a short, nasty laugh. "Haelga awake at 9:00 am? That's _not_ going to happen in a thousand, thousand years. The old bitch is still languishing under the bedcovers, sleeping off this night's wild ride. But maybe _I_ can help you?"

"Do you know, if a certain Gunmar bunked here during the lasssst few dayssss? He'sss been dessscribed to me asss a big, burly Nord with a ssspecial connection to animalsss. I heard he wasss able to raissse and train the wildessst of beassstsss, even troll-cubsss. An old friend needsss him now." Miss Scale told her. But she was disappointed soon enough.

"Nope, we haven't had a customer named Gunmar during the last weeks. Haelga has been banging three different men during the last month, one of them married and one Dunmer…" "Oh that'sss crassss!" Miss Scale interrupted. "But no beast-master I'm afraid." Svana continued. "You might want to consult other 'sources of information'. I'm talking about Brynjolf the quack. He's got a stall on the marketplace. Let's just say that he doesn't make most of his money with useless concoctions and leave it at that."

"Oh noooo!" Miss Scale wailed. "Thanksss for the hint, but I'm not that desssperate yet. The ssseedy jerk can get lossst in Oblivion for all I care; yesss indeed." That being said, Miss Scale left the *errrr* _establishment._

She briefly wondered if she should buy some magical equipment from the court wizard. But she decided against bothering Wylandria. That scatterbrained she-elf was grating on everyone's nerves in Mistveil Keep. Jarl Leila Law-Giver probably only kept her around out of pity. Maybe Brand-Shei had some wizard-stuff as well? It turned out to be a good guess. Miss Scale bought a spell-tome of soothing. She flipped through the pages eagerly. Illusion magic was nothing short of fascinating. Oh the possibilities! Muffling her own footsteps, bolstering up the courage of her companions, scaring off enemies, soothing them, or making them go berserk…

When she was done memorizing the callings and hand movements, she turned her feet towards the city gates of Rifton. She left for the stables and was still unsure on where to go next. Maybe Windhelm? It was relatively close to Rifton. But then, Miss Scale had a problem. The city itself was banned, a no-go-area for Argonians. They were only oh-so-graciously allowed to stay at the harbour. And there was no inn at the Windhelm harbour. But there was this teeny, tiny miner's camp near Windhelm. What was the name again? Aaah yes: Kynesgrove! The "settlement" consisted mainly of the Briarwood Inn and a few tents. Yes, that would be a good start as any. And she could combine the visit with a spa in the hot springs of Eastmarch. So she took her first steps towards the dirt-path that led to Torval's Cave, Ansilvund and Rockfurrow Cave. "Wildernesss, here I come," she thought!

x x x

Anitul Sirmarion was gliding two feet above ground – metaphorically speaking. He was no Telvanni wizard after all. But he was beyond glad to be mortal and alive once again. He made a small detour to Morthal to properly thank Falion. Then, he turned towards Solitude. But he decided for the paved road against the direct route. Better to be safe than sorry; for he had heard wild talk about a vampire hideout near Morthal. It would be just his luck to get infected again! The road took him through a fir-tree-forest. It was a pleasant hike all in all. But at one point, he saw a grey spot that obviously didn't belong to the road. There was no such thing as furry stone-slabs. It was an animal of some sort and it made a dash for the undergrowth. Anitul had a strong feeling, that it was a stray dog. He mused about whether to pursue it, or not. Well, he hadn't had the best of luck with his adventures lately. But then again: it was just a stray dog! How much of a challenge could that be? Famous last words… Anitul made up his mind and followed the swift dog. It led him to a small cot among the trees. "Hello?" Anitul called. "Is someone at home?"

But he could only hear the dog barking from inside. Cautiously he entered. There was no door, just the empty doorframe. The building was nothing special, almost had to be called a shack. And that stench, oh Stendarr it was terrible! Where did that stink come from? There was a shelf with some food and wooden plates but that couldn't be the source of the bad vapours. Anitul looked to the right and then he knew. There in the niche stood a bed and nightstand. And on the bed lay a dead body. Anitul couldn't tell anymore if it had been a man or a woman. Flies were swarming in the air and most of the flesh was covered with creepy crawlies. Yuck! The dog lay on the floor drooping its nose into an empty feed-bowl. Anitul found a diary on the nightstand. "May I?" he asked. Then he laughed to himself. Asking a dog for permission: how ridiculous! So he grabbed the diary and read it. Oh dear! This poor lonely guy (That much was clear now.) had died slowly and miserably from the after-effects of rockshanks. And since that time, the dog had fended for itself. Apparently Meeko was the dog's name. Anitul sighed. "Well Meeko…"

"*Woof*" said Meeko and thumped his tail on the floor. It felt so good to be finally called by his name again.

"You can't stay here." Anitul said. "Well technically, you _could._ But soon, it will be winter. And the wolves and sabre-cats will get desperate. You might get killed and eaten."

Meeko cocked his head and said "*Yowl?*". He rose on his four paws. Anitul bent down to pet him.

"You know what? I think the Thalmor embassy near Solitude needs a new mascot. Veeery serious position but Shuravi keeps a good table. Maybe ambassador Elenwen will keep you. On second thought… No let's better not do that. She might misuse you for the 'cruel and unusual punishment of prisoners'." Anitul kept chatting.

"Grrrr…" said Meeko.

"Oh yes, she's that kind of woman. You may tag along. Well, what are you waiting for?" Anitul asked.

*Woof*, *woof*, *WOOF*! Anitul found himself with a pair of paws on his shoulders and a face-wash for free. A little later, he left the cabin with Meeko bounding after him. They reached the embassy without difficulties. Anitul had to hunt for himself and Meeko now and then, but they managed.

The problems started at the embassy gate. Sergeant Shotoras was on guard duty again and not a happy mer. At the moment, he berated Anitul. "You're not serious boy, are you? A mascot? This is a _military_ compound first and foremost and of course residence of her eminence ambassador Elenwen. Somehow 'animal shelter' doesn't appear in the description. Well it's good to have _you_ back among the living but this walking flea-circus, now really?"

Anitul Sirmarion tried to protest. "But Meeko's previous owner died of rockshanks! I performed some last services for the poor guy but now the dog needs help."

"Oh drag it over to Solitude. Maybe general Tullius needs a hound dog? Or jarl Elisif needs a bed-warmer, or whoever… But it won't take permanent residence _here_ and that's final!" Sergeant Shotoras had become quite vocal.

Anitul was getting cranky, too. "Be that as it may, I still need to talk to the first emissary. I'd ask for resignation or in other words: I quit"

That reaction left sergeant Shotoras flabbergasted. "Because I denied a dog access? That's about the most absurd thing I've heard in the last two centuries."

Anitul looked more thoughtful now. He sighed. "It's not because of Meeko. Well not entirely… I went through Oblivion and back again during the last weeks. _You_ only weathered the storming of Northwatch Keep. But I had to endure weeks in the jail of a vampire hideout. I was _turned_ into a vampire for Auri-el's sake! That leaves a mer wondering where his priorities lie. Not with the Thalmor any longer, that's for sure."

As if to emphasize that, Meeko started baying. "See? Even Meeko agrees." Anitul said.

Sergeant Shotoras rolled his eyes and said: "That's hardly the case. It barked, because it _felt_ like barking. There's a reason for the expression 'stupid dog'. But do come in by any means. However, tell Meeko to stay behind."

Anitul Sirmarion gave the according order to Meeko. The dog started to whine and whimper but stayed behind. "So I only have to convince her frostiness Elenwen to let me go. Won't be easy." He grimly thought to himself. Then he stepped through the embassy gate, hopefully for the second last time.

x x x

Lord Harkon had had a very strange dream. Yes: vampires _do_ dream now and then while sleeping in their coffins. This wasn't the first time he had that dream. In the dream, he was in another place, definitely _not_ Castle Volkihar. He was out in the open, in a frozen valley. The whole place felt ancient and serene. The sky was shrouded in mists that thankfully blocked out the cruel light of Magnus. There were birch-trees around him and rare flowers, the likes of which he'd never seen before. These flowers were purple and light blue in colour and _glowing._ The only glowing plants he knew about were Nirnroot that Valerica had shown him so long ago. The brief memory of Valerica gave him a stab of sour mood. But back to the dream… Lord Harkon could also see deer scampering around. These animals were also the strangest he had ever seen. Their fur was striped in a fluorescent yellow! But then, a voice had sounded in his head.

"I can sense you, man of Atmora." This voice was neither deadric nor human. It held a tone that must have been heart-breakingly beautiful once.

"I am _no_ man, I haven't been for millennia." Lord Harkon "answered" with his rash thoughts.

"I am well aware of that." The answer was accompanied by a chuckle that sent thousands of icicles down Harkon's spine.

Lord Harkon bristled. "Who in the name of Coldharbour are you?" he demanded.

"I belong to those of the elder days, who roamed Tamriel before the human riff-raff landed on the Ghost Coast. I am the writer of words, words that destroyed your family. The ancient blood you might have… But you'll never obtain the bow. _I_ hold it." The voice taunted.

"Which bow are you talking about?" Lord Harkon asked.

The answer came not in words but with a picture. He saw a great statue of a male elf. The elf was holding his arms above his head and in his hands was a sun wrought of shining gold. This vision was accompanied by a jolt of such vicious hatred that Lord Harkon jerked awake. He opened his coffin and stepped out. Someone had been in his room only moments before. He sniffed the air like a hound. Serana! His dear, wayward daughter… Come to think of it, maybe she still _was_ in the room? Aaah yes, she'd used the vampire gift "embrace of the shadows". "Hey Serana, aren't you a bit old to play hide-and-seek?" Harkon called out.

From the corner near the cage came an annoyed huff and then the *whoosh* of an invisibility spell flickering out. Serana rose from her crouching position and said: "Nothing gets past you, right? Well I wasn't sure about the mood with which you would wake up. Remember the episode where you almost scratched mother's eyes out because you lived out the last remnants of a dream? She wouldn't go intimate with you for a week, if I remember correctly." Serana was really proud of the innocent expression that accompanied her words.

"Gah! Molag Bal's cock; don't remind me…" Lord Harkon groused. Then he looked at Serana with a piercing, expectant look.

"Oh fine, let's drop the act and get right to the point." Serana played along, albeit sullenly. "I need the key to the crypts under the northern tract of Castle Volkihar. I've got business there; business that has been left unattended for several millennia. You know, our old garden in the courtyard…" she finished lamely.

"Yes, I remember all too well. You and… _her_ (He all but spat the word.) would hole up there for hours because it was so damn peaceful and serene. Well, I did some 'readjustments' several centuries past. You'll like it. And if you don't, I won't mind either way." Lord Harkon sneered. His smirk made Serana's skin crawl.

"What? Did? You? Do?" Serana asked furiously and emphasized each word.

Now, her father looked the picture of innocence. "Oooh nothing major. I just devastated those grisly flowerbeds, played boccia with a few pots and planters and salted the rest of the soil." He waved his hand about in a nonchalant way, then used that hand to unfasten a key from his belt and tossed the key to Serana. She deftly caught it and then, she glared daggers at her father. She didn't bother with a spoken reply but used her vampiric mental powers to give the other vampire a piece of her mind - literally. Skulls and bones, clenched fists, lightning bolts, daggers, bombs and Akaviri letters too all appeared before the inner eye of Lord Harkon, who laughed it away with belittling ease. Serana left the room, clinging for dear life unto the remnants of her dignity.

x x x

Miss Scale had arrived in Kynesgrove after annoying hassles with one-too-many predators. Her new calming magic had worked wonders. The wolves and frostbite spiders had taken on a pale green hue as the spell had hit them. Then, they had lost all aggression, simply slinking away minding their own business. However, Miss Scale was very much aware, that this forced peacefulness would not be permanent. So she hurried on her way. She met the paved road from Windhelm to Rifton and turned right. She had passed the Dwemer ruins of Mzulft, a giant's camp (officially authorized), a hunter's butchering spot ( _not_ so authorized!) and at last, here she was standing in front of Briarwood Inn. The air around the hot springs of Eastmarch was always stuffy and smelly. The light breeze of sulphur wouldn't hurt her sturdy Argonian health much. But still, it was unpleasant. So Miss Scale entered the inn.

She went over to the counter and the owner addressed her. "I am Iddra and you've chosen the Briarwood Inn. What can I do for you? Food, drink or a bed?"

"Thanksss for the offer but maybe later. I am Misss Ssscale, adventurer and recent member of the Dawnguard. Did you have a patron named Gunmar recently? I have a messsssage for him. A former friend needsss him. No ssstringsss attached, at leassst not from _my_ ssside."

"Why yes." Iddra replied. "There was a guy named Gunmar here, only yesterday. He asked me, if there were any bounty-hunter jobs to do. In fact, messengers from Jarl Ulfric left an official announcement. The jarl wants a diseased cave bear in Crovanger Cave dealt with. The bear probably suffers from brain-rot or another maddening blight. It's already killed several harmless travellers."

"Oh dear me, the thingssss we do for the good of mankind!" Miss Scale sighed dramatically. "Could you pleasssse give me directionsss to thisss Crovanger Cave? Hopefully, I don't arrive to a mauled body. My employer, Issssran, isss not the mossst patient of Redguardsss, or the mossst underssstanding."

"Crovanger Cave is easy to distinguish." Iddra chirped. "Its entrance is festooned with cobwebs and egg cocoons. There must be a whole tribe of frostbite spiders in there…"

"Oh joy!" Miss Scale groused.

"Well, go to the stables of Windhelm. It's not far. There's a river joining the mighty Windhelm sund. Follow that river upstream. The cave is on its eastern bank." Iddra finished her tale.

"Thanksss a lot." Miss Scale said. "And could you pleassse sell me a roasssted goat leg and a bottle of mead?"

Iddra chuckled: "Of course, since it's such a looong way. That makes seven septims."

Miss Scale paid her tab and left the inn. Near the inn were some tents where the miners complained about the aedra-cursed heat in Steambrand Mine. Unfortunately, the miners would have to make do with the heat as it was the only major malachite deposit in all of Skyrim. And there also was this Dunmer stoneweaver sorceress, who tried to make working conditions more bearable with heat-resistance-potions.

Then, Miss Scale passed a short stretch of volcanic wasteland. She saw dragontongue orchids, creepvines and jasbay grapes. Apart from those few plants, the hot springs of Eastmarch were rather barren. Then she followed that certain river upstream. At the riverbank, she came across a hunting cabin and a very disagreeable sabre toothed cat that was not happy about the disturbance. Miss Scale first tried her soothing magic. When the sabre toothed cat proved too stubborn for the spell, she electrocuted it. *meow!* After that, Miss Scale picked a few vegetables from the cabin's garden. The whole place was clearly deserted. Further upstream, she arrived at Crovanger Cave. Those cobwebs must have been very sturdy. There was an adult mammoth entangled in them after all! The mammoth had starved. Miss Scale gulped quite audibly. Not good, _so_ not good. Shuddering, she entered the cave.

She walked through a short tunnel and came to the first room. There stood a big, burly Nord surrounded by a circle of four dead frostbite spiders. His hair shone reddish brown in the light of his torch. The only other source of light in the whole room was the eerie bluish glow of shimmer mushrooms. The Nord must have heard Miss Scale approaching because his hand was on the hilt of his weapon in no time. He spun around but his wild expression turned to relief when he saw, that it was "only" an Argonian woman.

"Breath-of-Kyne, what are _you_ doing down here? This place is dangerous or didn't you notice the mammoth carcass in the cobwebs at the entrance?" the guy asked clearly annoyed.

"Yesss I did, and believe me: I wissssh I were anywhere elsssse. But I'm a lizzzard with a misssssion. Are you Gunmar by any chance? A certain Isssran ssssent me to find you. He didn't ssssay anything about creepy ssspider holesss though." Miss Scale joked with a lopsided grin.

"Who are you and how have you met Isran? I haven't thought of him in quite some time. Five years ago, he was very eager to see my back disappear down the road. What does he want now?" Gunmar asked a lot of questions.

"I am Misssss SSSSScale, Argonian adventurer for hire. How I met Issssran, well that'sss a long ssstory. Jussst sssay that I joined the Dawnguard for a ssspecial reassson and leave it at that. Later, I'll tell you more. Now you have a rabid bear to hunt down, if I remember correctly." Miss Scale said.

"Yes and a volunteer just spoke up to accompany me." Gunmar replied grinning like the proverbial cat.

"But meesssa… Oh fine I had that one coming. Let'sss go find thisss dratted bear." Miss Scale sighed.

Then, she worked the candlelight spell for herself. With torch _and_ candlelight she noticed a thing that probably shouldn't sit on a cave wall: a button.

"Hey Gunmar" Miss Scale said. "Thisss button probably operatesss a hidden door or sssomething."

"Yes but I would bet on it, that the bear isn't in _there_ –whatever hidden room there may be…" Gunmar grumbled. "An untrained bear can't press any buttons. It's not smart enough. Let's follow the tunnels further into the cave."

And so they did. Miss Scale and Gunmar wormed their way through tunnels, down ramps (Miss Scale took some time to take a bath in an underground lake.) and finally they arrived at the lair of the beast – or well _beasts._ There was the blighted bear accompanied by a huge frostbite spider. Miss Scale fought big momma spider while Gunmar took on the bear. The fights were…messy to say the least. The huge frostbite spider could spit its venom over long distances. And the mad bear tried to tackle Gunmar. But the beast trainer moved out of the way with a nimbleness no one would have expected from him. He jumped on the bear's back and was safe from maw and claw. Then, he used the handle of his warhammer to strangle the bear. It was a lengthy and gruesome process.

Miss Scale had charged her hands with two different spells. In her left hand, she wielded the defensive spell "lesser ward". That was against the flying venom. While Argonians were immune to most poisons, the stuff would eat holes in the weaker parts of her armour. And Miss Scale wouldn't have that. And with her right hand, she poured a steady stream of flames at the spider. It hissed and squealed but finally backed away. When all her magicka were spent, Miss Scale used her crossbow to finish the spider off. The carcass of the overgrown pest nearly blocked the whole tunnel entrance to the lair. Miss Scale squeezed herself through a gap and was relieved to see Gunmar still among the living. He sat straddle-legged on that huge, and pretty dead, cave bear, wiped his brow and returned the warhammer to its sling.

"Well that was…bothersome", Gunmar wheezed. When he had caught his breath again, he said: "But this bear won't hurt another traveller. Don't know what you'll be doing but _I_ 'm going to Jorleif to collect my bounty. Hmm… Maybe I should behead the carcass to arrive with a proof? Will be damn heavy but it also will look great as a trophy over the mantelpiece. Then, I'll go to Fort Dawnguard."

"Whereassss I will go looking for Sssorine now. Yesss: Sssorine Jurard. Isssran alssso asssked for _her._ The poor man mussst be really desssperate. But maybe, I'll explore thisss hidden room firssst?" Miss Scale said. And so, they parted ways.

x x x

Anitul Sirmarion was waiting in Ambassador Elenwen's antechamber. The first emissary liked to keep guests waiting, even though soldier Sirmarion _wasn't_ a guest technically. It was all a show of power. Her: grand and mighty lady. Anitul? But a speck of dust on the floor. Well, Anitul was sitting in a chair. The hall was furnished with exquisite taste: rosewood sidetables, ebony shelves, lots of plush cushions, silver tableware, pastries displayed on silver trays… But after what felt like an eternity, the first emissary showed herself in the doorframe in all her elven glory. However, the merish ideal of beauty was and is questionable. (Have you ever met Nirya at the Winterhold academy of magic? Then you'll know what I mean. She's got an inbred horse-face and calls it "superior good looks" for crying out loud!)

Ambassador Elenwen was clothed in her hoodless Thalmor robes minus the spiky gloves. Her face was long but all the distances between nose, mouth, eyes and ears were pleasing. She had shoulder-length fair hair and that weird sooty make-up on her cheeks. Her amber eyes fit in the picture. She turned to Anitul and asked: "You wanted to talk to me soldier?"

"Yes ma'm!" Anitul Sirmarion called. "Some weeks ago, I was stationed at Northwatch Keep. But one dreadful night, the fort was attacked and run over by vampires. I'm sure you heard the stories of a select few survivors. I was taken alive by those freaks of nature and shipped off to Castle Volkihar. It's the home and headquarters of a very influential clan of vampires. I won't go into details about my captivity. Just know that this place has an ungodly jail and leave it at that. I was caught during an escape attempt and turned into a vampire as punishment. That's a process no man or mer should have to go through. Luckily, I was unconscious for most of the time. After the turning, the vampires sent me away on a quest. A vampire artefact now lies at the bottom of a Hjaalmarsh swamp pond. I "interpreted" the mission directives. Oh no! I forgot about the effects that might have on the resident slaughterfish. Well there's nothing to remedy that _now._ So long story, short reader: I was cured by Falion, the conjurer that settled down in Morthal. Again, that was a nasty process which required a filled black soul gem. But I'm back to my old mortal self and very glad about it. Alas this whole ordeal was very harrowing to me. I'd like to hand in my resignation and return to Alinor some day."

Elenwen's face had gone through all shades of shock and righteous anger during the report but now, she cocked her slanted brows.

"Oh really?" she asked. "But isn't that a bit…exaggerated? You could still be very useful to the Thalmor with your experience."

Anitul winced. "Experience that I'd rather forget about…" he muttered.

Elenwen huffed a dramatic sigh. "Well, I see there's no way of persuading you to stay. At least _try_ to mark the spot where Castle Volkihar is located on our war map. And then, give your armour back to the quartermaster. Can't have you running around in a Thalmor suit of armour when you no longer belong to us. In the meantime, _I_ will write and sign your documents."

Anitul gave an elegant salute. Then he said his "Yes ma'm!" and left the room. An hour later, he was dressed in civilian clothes that had lain in the bottom of his trunk. He left the Thalmor compound, waved a good-bye to sergeant Shotoras and whistled for Meeko. The dog ran around him in wide, playful circles and barked. "Yes buddy, that's a good dog. Come on, we're leaving." Anitul said. And they walked down the mountainside towards the Solitude-Dragonbridge-road, a free mer and his best friend.

Back at the embassy, Elenwen had called one of her many cat's paws. The word had to be taken literally because it was a male khajit. He was dressed in shabby clothes of homespun linen. His ears were large, well groomed and adorned with several golden rings. One of his eyes was coloured amber, the other one was milky white with a prominent scar going from brow to jaw. His fur was reddish with gray spots and stripes. He gave Elenwen a big, toothy grin. "What can this one do for you, your grace?" the khajit asked with the typical southern accent.

"Learn the proper titles for one, Rar'jin!" was Elenwen's waspish retort. "I'm not royalty…unluckily."

"Aaah Rar'jin is sorry! But for this one, you _are_ the ruler of your own little kingdom and of me," the khajit grovelled.

"And quit the flattery for Auri-el's sake! I've got a serious job for you. You're going to shadow a former soldier called Anitul Sirmarion. He retired today, way before the due age. His reasons may be understandable, but still something feels off. He didn't tell me _everything_ that he went through and did during the last weeks. Here's where _your_ task starts Rar'jin. Spy on him, write reports about his doings and whereabouts, his companions, every last thing. Skyrim has become a dangerous country. It wouldn't do for poor Anitul to have an 'accident'." Elenwen said and smiled insincerely.

"Oh yes, Rar'jin will do that," the khajit said and nodded enthusiastically. "But Rar'jin will need supplies, _lots_ of supplies: at least two big bags of septims, a stack of paper, quill and inkwell aaand a dagger, should some jerk of a Nord find it funny to step on Rar'jin's tail." The khajit flattened his ears to his head and bared his teeth menacingly.

"Yes, yes. You'll get all of these. Let's settle for a modest steel dagger. I can't have you running around with cheap clothes and an ebony or malachite weapon. It would look strange and suspicious. And _don't get caught!_ That's the most important thing." Elenwen shooed him away with a wave of her hand.

At the mention of steel dagger, Rar'jin looked somewhat disappointed but said: "This one lives to serve."

"Then serve me well." Elenwen emphasized.

x x x

Serana was in distress…to put it mildly. She had hurried to the northern side of Volkihar Island, dealt with some nasty skeletons at the private quay and unlocked the door to the crypt. Well, someone _had_ been down there recently and killed several death hounds, skeletons and other nuisances. Her path had been effortless and she had ascended the stairs to the courtyard. It was the state of said courtyard that drove her to bloody tears.

In her memory, the place still _was_ a sweet garden-spot with orderly flowerbeds filled with deathknell, nightshade, yellow mountain flower (very rare!) and various mushrooms. The planters were then still filled with juniper and snowberry bushes. And the moondial, her mother's greatest pride, had still been in order. Now the garden was barren, the pots were empty and the moondial had been vandalized. Argh! One day, she was going to _spank_ her father for this!No, not just spank him but _kill_ him, she grimly thought. But then, she remembered the reason _why_ she was in this place after all. She walked around a bit and called to the seemingly empty space: "Hey Thorald, Thorald Grey-Mane! I know you must be nearly besides you with fear. Listen, I'm _not_ after your blood. I was sent by an Argonian adventurer to look after you. Her name is Miss Scale. She's working for your mother and the Dawnguard. They want to return you home alive and in one piece. I… I've got food for you. Won't you come out?"

There came a sullen reply from the most backward corner of the yard. "Leave me be, creature of the night! I won't fall for your promises. Three days ago, I had to kill my poor death hound Maul to eat him. I was _so_ hungry. Then I waited for some gulls to land, but they never came. Just let me die in peace." Thorald whined.

"Oh dear, this is going to be difficult." Serana thought. She had to use all her patience and persuasion and…the last sad remnants of her girlish charm. "Listen Mr. Grey-Mane, I've already fed. And I've got a bottle of "blood draught" in my pack. So I won't have to follow my base urges for quite some time. You'll be just fine. Did I mention that I've got a horse-loin steak and some sweet treats?" she asked innocently.

There was some grumbling from out of the bushes. "You won't give up, will you?" Thorald Grey-Mane asked.

"Nope that's not my way." Serana replied. Then, the bushes parted and a very scraggly, underfed Nord appeared. His arms were a far shot from brawny and his legs had difficulty in carrying him.

"Rargal Slave-master put us on a diet," he said apologetically. Serana winced at those words. The fucking bastard! He should be locked in a vampire-proof vault with just his sadist self for company. That probably wouldn't teach him a lesson but the wailing and shrieking would be music to Serana's ears. She unstrapped her backpack, rummaged in it and tossed a sweet-cake to Thorald. "Better take it slow," she advised him. "Don't wolf everything down at once. You'll only get sick."

But the advice was lost among Thorald's munching and swallowing. Food, glorious food that deserved its name! Thorald flushed it down with a bit of water that Serana offered him from a waterskin. He said: "That's probably the first – and last – time that I'll be grateful to a vampire. Those last weeks in this castle have been…unspeakably dreadful. I didn't know, if I was to be selected as a future vampire or not. The uncertainty, the hunger, the humiliations, the mean talk of Rargal…" Thorald Grey-Mane was lost for words.

Serana looked at him sadly. "Looks like my father has got _a lot_ to answer for: your suffering, the devastation of this garden, forcing us all to become vampires in the first place... He's been a devout follower of Molag Bal since his early Atmoran days."

Here, she was interrupted by a bewildered shout from Thorald: "Atmora?! You mean like in 'The collected songs of the return', Ysgramor going ashore and all? Gods, how old _are_ you actually?"

Serana mock-thoughtfully placed an index finger on her chin and scrunched up her face. "I've been stashed away and sleeping for the past eras… Yes _eras_!" she emphasized. "So four-thousand-plus-something years? That's a wild guess at best. Being out of the picture for so long, I still have to decide if that's been a blessing or a curse. But we've really got to go now. I've taken something from my father that I wasn't _supposed_ to take…if you get my meaning. Something priceless. By the way, my name is Serana."

"Naughty girl, eh?" Thorald Grey-Mane asked. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Well it's none of my business. You unlocked the door to the outside world. And you fed me. By the way, I could stomach another sweet-cake. I need to get back in shape as fast as I can."

But Serana pretended to _not_ hear his begging for food. She turned towards the crypt entrance, walked a few paces and lifted her hand in a 'follow me'-gesture. Thorald audibly groaned but shuffled after her. He only paused for a tiny moment to whisper: "Rest in peace, Maul."

x x x

Miss Scale's eyes narrowed dangerously. She bared her teeth and was at the beginning of a fearsome hiss. No, she was _not_ a happy Argonian. She had searched the Reach for freaking days, as it was one of the biggest holds in all of Skyrim. Only the Whiterun tundra rivalled it in size. But the Reach was by far rockier and murkier, and downright hostile on bad days. Miss Scale had had her fair share of hungry predators of all sizes coming after her. _That_ had already been bothersome. But then, she'd also run afoul of a Forsworn camp or two. Aaah yes, the Forsworn… They belonged to the same ethnical group as the Bretons. But where most Bretons were elegant, had a way with words (not to mention mighty inborn magic)…those Forsworn were savages. Yes, savages!

Miss Scale didn't come to that opinion lightly. Argonians too, they suffered from many-a-prejudice. They were called "beastfolk" because their animalistic heritage was still clearly visible, because they had adapted to life in a giant swamp, because they worshipped intelligent trees called "Hist".

But the Forsworn in the crypts, derelict forts and caves were enemies to _all_ who happened to stumble over them. They wore crude fur armour, wielded even cruder weapons and their "magical authorities" did unholy blood magic. The shrines of the old gods were adorned with goat heads on spikes, butchered skeevers, spriggan parts and quite frankly, Miss Scale didn't want to delve too deeply into the briarheart-creation-process.

Finally, she had found that engineer friend of Isran's but the woman proved to be every bit the pig-headed scientist she was said to be. Sorine Jurard was camping near a crumbling Dwemer pillar in the middle of nowhere and refused to go _anywhere,_ unless her stupid Dwemer cogwheels were found. She needed ten of the weighty metal parts.

"Ssso, let me get thisss ssstraight: You're doing field work, which isss all good and well. And you lossst your bag with Dwemer cogwheelsss." Miss Scale summarized and Sorine Jurard nodded. "Each cogwheel weighsss about 10 kg, making that a dead weight of 100 kg. And you claim that a mudcrab dragged the bag away?! Mussst have been the ssstrongessst mudcrab of all timesss and agessss. Or you don't want to admit, that you misssplace your ssstuff now and again."

Now, Sorine Jurard sent her an indignant and downright withering look. "Mock me all you want but I won't leave without these cogwheels! They are crucial for my research concerning… *sigh* Never mind. And I must say Isran has got _some_ nerves to order me around in this way. I'm totally unprepared! Why is he suddenly so upset?"

"It'sss jussst the minor affair of an Elder Ssscroll in the clawsss of a vampire lord." Miss Scale replied sarcastically. "All right, I will look for your blasssted Dwemer cogwheelsss." And off she went. Miss Scale didn't have to go far though. A mere 20 paces away, near the riverbank, lay a roughspun sack. And in the sack? Bingo! There were 10 Dwemer cogwheels inside. Miss Scale dug her heels in the ground and started to drag the item along the ground. She returned to a now very alarmed Sorine.

"A vampire lord and an Elder Scroll? This situation can only breed disaster!" she cried.

"Which isss why we need to return to Dayssspring Canyon asss fassst asss possssible. We need a packhorssse. Maybe we'll find one in a Forsssworn cattle pen?" Miss Scale said.

And they found one near Fort Sunguard. They had to "negotiate" with the Forsworn first but they were victorious. They strapped the cogwheels and other loot to the packhorse and the travel went much faster from this point onwards. They travelled via Whiterun, Riverwood, the pass east of Helgen into the autumn forest and all the way to Rifton.


End file.
